


Helpless

by cristianoronaldo



Series: Fallen [2]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: High School AU, M/M, god this is so long this story is never going to end i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 88,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second part of Fallen.<br/>Fights, drama, talk of bondage. They're all gay, don't even expect anyone to be straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you were all able to find this easily because I'm still pretty new to AO3 and this is the first series I've tried to create. Sorry about the drama, but ridiculous fights are what I do best.

They're getting ready to watch an old episode of Game of Thrones when Leo walked in. "Hey," said Sergio, paying absolutely no mind to Isco walking around shirtless. "You got a haircut."

 

" _He_ noticed," Leo said sourly in Cristiano's direction.

 

"Oh, now you want your hair to be noticed. I said you needed a haircut last year, and you almost punched me."

 

Leo smiled at the memory. "Remember when I did punch you?"

 

Cristiano didn't look up from his homework. "Remember when I broke your face?"

 

Sergio snickered and found the _beautiful_ , illegal link to watch the episode online. "God, this episode fucked me up."

 

"I'm watching with you until David calls," Leo said, defensively like they might kick him out.

 

"Okay," Sergio said.

 

"Fine." Cristiano bit the end of his pencil. "So Leo, how's David?"

 

Leo looked away. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Fine. He likes San Francisco as much as he can like something. So he just hates it less than other things. I visited over summer, and it's nice." He hesitated. Cleared his throat and glued his eyes to the screen.

 

"What is it?" Cristiano asked, because Sergio was distracted and he could care when no one was watching. He and Leo could be half friends.

 

"Hm?"

 

"What's wrong?" 

 

"Think he may have met someone?" He said it like a question, his voice going thin and high like he couldn't catch his breath.

 

"So ask him." Cristiano stuck his hand in the candy bucket, threw the dark chocolate at Sergio when he gabbed it instead of a pack of skittles. 

 

"I did," Leo replied, his cheeks turning pink. It was sort of adorable, how terrified he was of actually admitting Cristiano and Sergio were close to being his friends. "He said of course he met people. He met a lot of people. He didn't get what I was asking."

 

"So ask again."

 

"No," Leo said, horrified. "I'm not going to obsess over this. It's dumb. It's nothing."

 

"Weren't you going to go visit him?" Cristiano ignored Leo's eyebrow raise. He hadn't meant to memorize that tidbit of information. 

 

"Yeah, I'm going next month. I helped move him in because his parents didn't drop him off, so."

 

Sergio finally stopped staring at Isco. He shook his head, muttered something about nipples, and hit play. Cristiano and Leo exchanged a meaningful look over his unsuspecting head.

 

~~

 

"I don't know," Cesc said. Iker was examining his notes with furious focus. "It just seems stupid, you know? To have to think about this C on my report card, and to think about how it will literally alter my life, and to think about my career and my happiness, like-- they're so not the same thing."

 

Iker looked up from his project, a blue marker hanging out of his mouth. "Should I join a fraternity?"

 

Cesc licked his finger to smudge a penciled in letter. "And, like, I have to take the SAT."

 

Iker shrugged, and they were content conversing with thenselves. "I mean, I sort of hate the guys in them, but they can't all be that bad, right?" He was the king of making excuses for people when he was determined to like them. 

 

Cesc bit a marker open. A blue streak appeared on his upper lip like a deformed, discolored mustache. "Like, why do I even have to take a test that tests that kind of bullshit. It's, like, why are you asking me to correct the sentence? Why didn't you just write it correctly the first time?"

 

There was a silence between them, and Iker nodded slowly, considering it. "I made some friends. One of them is kind of an asshole, and the other two are the biggest assholes I've ever met, so that's good."

 

Cesc pasted a cartoon version of George Washington with the caption _stole teeth from slaves-- not as heroic as we think?_ with " _the real racist tooth fairy_ " scrawled in black ink below it. "I failed a chem test, but I already knew that was going to happen, so." 

 

Iker flipped the page. "And I haven't fucked a teacher yet, so that's already an improvement on high school."

 

Cesc smiled, but he was quiet, and he reached out his hand to poke the camera on his laptop.

 

Iker poked it back. "It won't change your life."

 

Cesc wrote his name. Added Gerard's in pencil after a moment's hesitation. They always worked together which meant Cesc doing the posterboard and Gerard doing absolutely no research, no preparation--literally nothing-- but somehow pulling off the most brilliant, charming presentation the world had ever seen. "What, a fraternity?"

 

"No, the C."

 

"Oh." He traced the "E" with black sharpie. "you should join. People like you belong there. If someone like me tried to join a fraternity..." He let out a low whistle. "It would _so_ not go down well."

 

"Your life is going to be happy," Iker said exasperatedly like they were in the middle of an argument and Cesc wasn't listening. "And you don't have to choose between happiness and a career. They can be the same. That's when you know you've done it right, when your career is, I don't know, a reason to be happy-- or something."

 

Cesc shrugged, considering Iker's half of the conversation for the first time. They ran through their Skype sessions that way, talking at each other until one made a breakthrough and they started to connect somewhere in the middle.

 

Iker chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Maybe I will."

 

"What, be happy?"

 

"No," he said, laughing, "Join a fraternity."

 

~~

 

Leo was okay with being alone. He didn’t mind the silence or the dull ache in his chest when he remembered the friendship he used to have with Fernando and Ricardo. He didn’t mind his parents calling every so often and asking if he’d made any friends. The one thing--the _one_ thing-- that really bothered him were the looks.

 

They looked at him like he was dirt, like he was something that got stuck to the bottom of their shoes. They looked at him like they couldn’t bear to breathe on their own, so why was he doing it? And Leo just wanted to know why they had to travel in packs, read in packs, do their homework in each other’s rooms.

 

He was getting better at it. He was starting to understand that people really valued human connection, and sometimes it was nice to laugh until his sides ached, even if it was with people he didn’t necessarily love 100% of the time.

 

Beneath it all though, he missed David. They skyped a lot, and they missed each other a lot. David wanted to try skype sex, but Leo said absolutely no, never, never ever, not gonna happen. Because it was weird and he couldn’t stop laughing, and he couldn’t handle seeing himself doing it onscreen.

 

“So don’t look,” David had suggested.

 

“Isn’t that the whole point?” Leo had returned exasperatedly. “To look?”

 

So they didn’t try anything and Leo was getting frustrated and lonely. He missed the way David would walk around their tiny room and make those comments that got under his skin. He missed the way David poured the milk in his cereal bowl first just to fuck with Leo. Or his bathrobe that was always stained with toothpaste.

 

Leo set his math homework down. He should have been done, but instead he was just. He was too tired, and he had his head in his hands, and he shouldn’t have been having a breakdown in the break room because, jesus, anyone could walk in.

 

“You okay, Leo?” It was Fernando, talking to him for the first time in ages. He patted him on the back with his free hand, the other busy with his phone, probably texting Sergio about how pathetic Leo had become.

 

Leo sat up straight, rubbed at his eyes. “Uh, yeah, just. It’s nothing.” Fernando had gotten a haircut, stopped getting it highlighted; there were bags under his eyes, but he looked happier than he had in a long time. Leo knew that must have meant he hadn’t seen Sergio staring at his roommate yet. 

 

“Nah, come on, what is it?”

 

“Frustrated,” he said shortly. “With, uh, my homework.”

 

“Need help?”

 

“No. Not in any way you can help me.”

 

The conversation ended quickly. Fernando backed away, and Leo felt like he was released from a sleepy, angry trance. It was essentially the first time they’d talked since halfway through the summer, and Fernando wanted to know how he was. Well. Good. At least he _cared_.

 

messiah: i’m about to tell you something really weird can you handle it

crustyanus: yeah i’m in a horrible mood so i can definitely handle it

messiah: what, did you accidentally pluck one eyebrow too much

crustyanus: how dare you. that is actually a horrible thing that has never happened to me thank god since i’m a pro with that but ?? how can you even make fun? one of these days i’ll fix your eyebrows and you’ll understand

crustyanus: if the brow game isn’t strong, the dick game isn’t strong

messiah: that’s the motto

crustyanus: tell me your weird thing

messiah: nah tell me why you’re in a horrible mood first otherwise i feel like a shitty person

crustyanus: i want you to feel like a shitty person

messiah: i will literally shave your left eyebrow off

crustyanus: fuckK

crustyanus: ok it’s nothing just frustrated with ricky

messiah: what’s up with him? haven’t talked to him in ages.

crustyanus: exactly. that’s what’s up with him. he can’t talk to anybody because he’s on some fucKing church retreat

crustyanus: it’s honestly such a joke

crustyanus: like, he wasn’t “allowed” to tell me about it because they were taking some vow of silence

crustyanus: which just makes it sound like a cult

crutyanus: which just reminds me of the following (scary show don’t watch it red alert so scary)

crustyanus: anyway i don’t mean to whine but it’s fucking ridiculous. vow of silence? church retreat without internet access or texting or anything????

messiah: how did you find out where he is?

crustyanus: his cousin had to help him pack, so he knew

crustyanus: so he texted me like a day after ricky left

messiah: jesus

messiah: that’s awful

crustyanus: i know. i’m pissed. tell me your weird thing.

messiah: well i was jsut going to complain about how me and david haven’t really been talking, long distance is a terrible, terrible thing, and i just need to watch some good porn?? but you sound like you need it more than I do

crustyanus: PORN BUDDIES?

messiah: no

crustyanus: fine imma give you a link though

messiah: you don’t know what I like

crustyanus: watch me guess motherfucker

messiah: you’ll never

crustyanus: dinner 10 minutes be there

 

And so instead of sitting down and having a conversation with someone he used to consider his best friend, Leo brushed by Fernando, seated at a table nearby, and returned to his room to change his clothes before dinner.

 

When he sat down, Sergio slapped him on the back like they were old friends. “Hey, how are you doing?”

 

Cristiano slid onto the bench across from them. “He’s horny,” he supplied loudly. “Long distance. You wouldn’t get it.” He turned cheerfully back to Leo. “He’s not part of the long distance club. He doesn’t understand.”

 

“I’m not horny,” Leo said, turning pink. “I’m not.”

 

Cristiano rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Alright. Whatever you do, don’t think about Sergio and Fernando going at it. Also Isco. Ah, throw him in there too with the nipples Sergio is fucking obsessed with.”

 

Sergio put his head down on the table. “I’m going to pass out. I’m literally going to pass out and hit the floor, and when I wake up, the only thing I’ll be able to say is nipples. Do you know how embarrassing that would be for me?”

 

Cristiano snorted-- somehow, gracefully. “It’s your fault for being obsessed with his nipples.”

 

“It’s his fault for having them.”

 

“Right. Let’s blame the poor nipple-kid. That makes a ton of sense.”

 

Sergio kept his head down. Cristiano smiled like he was king. Leo shut his eyes. “Alright. Yeah. Yeah, I’m a little horny.”

 

~~ 

 

That night it was just Cristiano and Sergio in Sergio’s empty room because Fernando was learning the flute, Juan and Fabio were arguing over dinner about who had to clean up the vomited-on sheets, and Leo was enjoying his porn (Cristiano had quickly solved things by stirring his dinner--cereal and strawberries-- and staring at Leo until, finally, “ _Bondage_ ” and Leo went so pink it could only be the truth). 

 

“Just like old times, huh?” Sergio nudged Cristiano with his arm. “Almost feels like last year again.”

 

Cristiano laughed as he leaned back against his pillow, the computer situated between them so they could both see the screen. “Like last year? Please. Last year was nothing like this. Last year was you vs. me vs. Iker, and then Iker and me vs. you. And then it was just you and Fernando vs. the world.”

 

“It was not,” Sergio said annoyedly. He stabbed a button on the computer to silence the commercial. “Jesus, you don’t have to turn everything into a fucking argument.” He was already having a frustrating day, and this was so not helping. He needed to listen to soothing nature sounds or something. 

 

Cristiano had that look in his eye like he could take an empire and dismantle it. “And you don’t have to turn everything into a competition. You isolate yourself with people. Before Fernando, you isolated yourself with me. Before me, it was Iker. You choose people, and then you toss them away and move on. And when you feel like coming back, you expect everything to be the way you left it.”

 

Shots fired. “I don’t expect that, Cris." Sergio was more than a little annoyed. The sheets were starting to feel itchy, the room too small. "I just expect to be able to spend a little time with my boyfriend without finding out my friends completely hate me. Fucking christ, where is this even coming from?”

 

The hardness returned to Cristiano's eyes. "Nowhere," he said calmly. He leaned over to grab a handful of skittles from the candy tray they’d set up. “It’s not coming from anywhere.” He averted his gaze, bit the inside of his cheek. “Just forget I said anything. I was just trying to point out that you don’t have to make choices.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Cristiano sighed wearily because he knew that wasn't going to be the end of the conversation. Going anywhere near an argument was dangerous around Sergio because he'd take one tiny combative word and turn it into a bomb. “It doesn’t have to be either you hang out with Fernando or you hang out with me, or you try and create this awkward balanced thing. Ever notice how Fernando doesn’t like sitting with us at lunch when I’m there? Or how he almost never sits with us at dinner? Because of me, Sergio.”

 

“Not everything is about _you_." He was close to yelling. They'd almost reached his boiling point. "Jesus fucking christ. Not everything is about you.”

 

Cristiano pushed the covers off of him, got out of bed. He felt better when he was standing up, less confined, less awkward because they’d been sitting in bed together, and Cristiano was remembering things about before Before Fernando and Before Ricky, and how things used to be just him and Sergio and Iker. And how that felt perfect before everything had to go and change.

 

“I’m not saying everything is about me. But, seriously--”

 

It was too late. Sergio threw up his hands and started to rant. “You guys go work out together, you take that stupid fucking art class together--”

 

“We don’t even sit next to each other, Sergio," Cristiano cut in hotly. "He doesn’t like me. Things are better than last year, but he doesn’t like me, and I know you see that, and all I was trying to say was that you don’t have to make a decision. That this is my problem, not yours.”

 

Sergio ripped the blankets off, threw himself roughly off the bed, and stood on the other side of the room to face Cristiano. “You know what? Fuck you. _Fuck you_. Fuck you so much, you pretentious bastard. Not everything is about you, and not everything is your problem. He’s my boyfriend, and you’re my best friend, and you’re telling me this isn’t my problem?” 

 

“I’M TRYING TO MAKE THINGS EASIER ON YOU.”

 

“STOP TRYING. YOU THINK--” Sergio glared at him murderously. “You think you can help everyone just by being your charming self, but you just fucking destroy everything. Last year, I was absolutely in love with you. Before I met Fernando, I thought I was going to die loving you. But you were an emotionless bastard and you let me down time and time again, and now that I’m finally happy, you have to spring this on me--”

 

“Sergio--”

 

“No. You have to spring this on me, and tell me that ‘It’s okay, Sergio,” he said, doing a horrible impersonation of Cristiano, “‘I’ll take care of everything. Your boyfriend hates me, and I don’t like him. Just wanted to let you know. Don’t worry about it though!’ You selfish asshole. Couldn’t you have just kept this to yourself?”

 

Cristiano stood there, confused, feeling like his tongue was tied up in a knot, his stomach had taken a beaten, and his brain was being ground to useless bits of meat. “Fine,” he said. He picked up his backpack, grabbed his pillow, and walked past Sergio without another word.

 

“Fuck you,” Sergio yelled down the hallway.

 

Cristiano gave him the finger without turning around.

 

Someone opened a door. “SHUT UP.”

 

~~ 

 

David was tired, that much was obvious. He was working two jobs, attending his classes, and taking an extra art class on the side because he figured if he made himself busy enough, harder decisions would be made with less sleep, less attention to detail; everything would be numb.

 

He and Leo were skyping again. Leo looked brighter and happier than normal which just made David feel shitter than he already felt for what he had to do. He flipped through his textbook until he came to the paragraph recent archaeological digs. He traced his finger downwards until he found “Tuscany, Italy.”

 

“So I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly.

 

Leo pulled out his headphones. “Hm? Sorry, did you say something?”

 

David hesitated. Leo looked younger with the haircut but, somehow, more mature. More like a soldier. He looked more solid, like he’d been lifting weights or something. He was tanner, smiling more, his teeth were whiter, his clothes fit better. David missed him, missed even when his coat almost reached his knees because he hadn’t bothered to try it on before buying it.

 

“Hey, Leo,” he said like they hadn’t started their conversation two hours and thirty-three minutes ago. “There’s just something I want to tell you.” He swallowed nervously, hands going numb. “Uh.” He lost his nerve at the last second. “I’m doing pretty well in that art class, and I don’t hate everyone in it, so that’s good. Went to this party last night, and I didn’t even get drunk, but I went home afterward and threw up because I think I got food poisoning,” he rambled. “Mild salsa is so dangerous. That’s why I won’t even touch it normally. Go big or go home, you know? If it doesn’t set my mouth on fire, it’s not even worth it. The salsa game was so weak.”

 

Leo smiled. “I like mild salsa. My mother says I’m a disappointment.”

 

David laughed. He rubbed his eyes. It was going to be harder than he thought. “God, this sucks.”

 

“Mild salsa?” Leo had turned back to his work. He was unsuspecting, happy, and David wished he could leave him that way.

 

“No, what I have to say.”

 

Leo hesitated, his pencil hovering above his paper. “And what do you have to say?” He didn’t look up.

 

The longer David stayed silent, the more Leo began to fear. It was building in his chest until finally, he burst out, “You met someone didn’t you? I knew this was going to happen. Fuck. Okay. I’m ready. Just say it. Just tell me about him. Or her. Great, I probably turned you straight. Dating me has literally knocked you into a different sexuality--”

 

“What? No. Shut up. Shut up, okay? No way.” There were bags under David’s eyes, his hair was a mess, and scar had appeared on his left cheek like he hadn’t been paying attention, walked right into a door or something. “I didn’t meet anyone else, and I don’t want anyone else. It’s just--” He bit the inside of his cheek. “This whole long distance thing.”

 

“It sucks, I know," Leo said, blowing out a sigh of relief. 

 

David twisted his hands in his lap. “I always knew it was going to suck, but I didn’t think it was going to suck this much. I can’t see you. I can’t--I can’t hold you back. You understand, right?”

 

Leo was frozen. His fingers were going numb, bones feeling weak. He felt like he was going to be sick all over his keyboard. “What are you talking about.”

 

“I’m in San Francisco, Leo--” He sounded like he was trying not to break something fragile. 

 

“But I’m coming to visit you. In a few months, I’m coming to visit, and everything will be okay.” Leo could hear yelling from down the hall, someone opening their door and telling the screamers to shut up, another door slamming. Footsteps, lots of them. Running. But it was deadly silent in his room, and the sounds coming from outside were like ghosts. They barely skimmed his consciousness. 

 

Finally, “I canceled your ticket. It doesn’t make sense for you to visit if we’re--” He cut off. Couldn’t make himself say it.

 

Leo swallowed hard. His vision was blurry, and when he reached up to touch his cheek, his fingers came away wet, and all he could think about was how _embarrassing_ it was to be crying, and how much he wished he could be anyone else in the world. 

 

“You have to say it,” he said finally, and his voice sounded like he’d been through hell. “If you want to end this, you have to say it.”

 

David leaned away from his desk. He looked away, pained. Drummed his fingers on his textbook before leaning in, forcing the emotion out of his eyes, and coldly saying, “It doesn’t make sense for you to visit if we’re broken up. It’s over.”

 

~~

 

neighmos: iker

ikercasillas: i already heard

neighmos: of fucking course

ikercasillas: i’m going to tell you what i told him

ikercasillas: the two of you are absolute idiots

ikercasillas: always have been and always will be

ikercasillas: and you explode over TINY MEANINGLESS things because you haven’t taken care

ikercasillas: of the issues that have built up over the years

neighmos: not my fault we haven’t

ikercasillas: when you speak, it just pisses me off

ikercasillas: talk to him when you’ve cooled off

ikercasillas: you two throw tantrums every six months it’s not going to be any different this time

neighmos: guess so. i just can’t even look at him right now

neighmos: i told him i was in love with him last year

neighmos: and absolutely nothing

neighmos: he just said fine and left

ikercasillas: ah i didnt’ hear about that part

ikercasillas: he just said you fought, told me the gist of it

neighmos: obviously he didn’t get gist-y enough

neighmos: because i said i was in love with him

neighmos: last year not now jesus

ikercasillas: okay

ikercasillas: i’m just saying think about it

ikercasillas: because you know i love nando

ikercasillas: and you two make a great couple

ikercasillas: but if i had to choose, i’d pick cris every time

ikercasillas: and part of me thinks you would too

ikercasillas: think about it. i have to go. text me later

ikercasillas logged off 9:48 pm

 

neighmos sent ikercasillas offline messages 9:53 pm

neighmos: he has a boyfriend i don’t have to think about anything

neighmos: and i have a boyfriend too, so.

neighmos: no thinking is going on here.

 

~~

 

gerrards logged on 3:47 am

alonsos: fuck promises

 


	2. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sergio was always the first to turn a spark into a wildfire"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry 
> 
> btw i tried to read this over and edit but i've got SAT practice stuff to take because i'm taking it this month (i'm very sad) so i didn't have much time, plus i got so frustrated with the quality of this chapter that i considered scrapping the whole story but alas here we are

~~

Cristiano was recounting what happened to Fabio around 2 am-- Juan was covering his head with a pillow on the floor because the vomit still hadn't been cleaned up-- when Leo walked in with red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh," he said blearily, voice thick with emotion, "sorry, am I interrupting something?" He had his white uniform shirt on still over light blue boxers, black socks half rolled down.

Fabio shrugged. He seemed to understand Cristiano's "friendship" with Leo better than Cristiano understood it.

Cristiano was about to snap at him because he wanted to take it out on someone-- mostly Sergio, but he was probably sleeping soundly or fucking Fernando or something-- but when he turned to look at Leo, the tension left his face, and he patted Fabio on the arm to let him know their conversation was over.

He grabbed his jacket and guided Leo out the door. He didn't stop until they reached the entrance to the dorms, and even then they kept walking. Leo was sniffling quietly, hiding his face, and Cristiano didn't look or speak to him until they reached the pitch. Finally, they sat down side by side near the goal, and Cristiano picked at the grass.

"Are you okay?"

"David and I... We're-- " He cut off, delivered the news like a stab in the chest, quick and sharp and bitingly painful. "--done."

The other boy stopped ripping up the grass. He stared at his lap.  "I'm sorry."

"I know." He drew a deep breath, trying to appear calm and composed because, even though he went to Cristiano in his time of need, he wasn't prepared to break down and show every weakness. "I'm embarrassed even more than I'm sad. I had a fatalistic approach to this whole thing anyway. But, god, did I have to cry?"

"Crying is like being a power bottom. It's something that should make you weak." He nudged Leo's shoulder with a smile. "But it doesn't."

Leo nodded sadly, and he thought the worst part about break-ups wasnt the pity or the lack thereof or the sinking feeling of regret; it was the constant stream of memories like superglue. "Do you really believe that or are you just trying to make me feel better."

"I really do believe that," Cristiano said, and he felt them cross into "friend territory." All because of that comment about power bottoms.

Leo rubbed his eyes. Ran his fingers through his hair. "Fuck," he said with a stupid laugh. "Thanks for..." He drifted off, flustered.

"Yeah. Course."

It was quiet, then, suddenly, "I should be pissed, right? I am sort of. I'm just." He waved his hand. "Whatever."

"I know."

Leo leaned back until he was flat on his back on the grass, staring up at the sky. "I don't know what to do." Cristiano joined him on his back, looked for the Big Dipper. "I thought I'd finally found a friend who wasn't going to-- I don't know-- pick someone over me, and he didn't even have to find someone else to decide I wasn't good enough."

Cristiano stuck his hand up to cover a portion of the stars. Squinting, he tilted his head sideways to try and find a pattern. They were scattered aimlessly. "That's what you're worried about?" he asked, still holding his hand up. "Not being good enough?"

"Always," Leo said, tilting his head to squint at the same portion of the sky. "Just like you."

"I forget sometimes, that we're two sides of the same coin." He let his hand fall to his lap, and then she appeared: Andromeda, the chained princess.

"Pretty funny, isn't it? How much we used to hate each other?" Leo stuck his thumb over a particularly bright star, just because. Just because he wanted to extinguish some light.

Cristiano smiled, at Leo's words and at his princess. "I think it stems from my natural inclination towards self-hatred."

"That's cheerful." Leo let his star reappear.

"What can I say," Cristiano began mockingly. "You get me all giddy."

Leo laughed lightly, and then it was quiet, and because it was hard not to feel insignificant under the great canvas of the sky, the awful suffocating sadness returned to him. "God, I'm embarrassed," he said again.

Cristiano thought for a second, about Leo and about the princess in the stars because as much as he pretended to not care about shit like constellations, sometimes that was all that mattered. Just when he was about to say something deep about chains and Leo and the princess, he blurted out, "I was dating this guy around Christmas, and he broke up with me, so I drank a whole carton of eggnog. If that makes you feel better."

Leo looked at him, mouth hanging open speechlessly, before bursting out laughing, rolling over onto his stomach to smother the hysteria, the insignificance of the human race in relation to the universe entirely forgotten. "A whole carton?"

"Yes, and some gingerbread cookies."

"I want cookies," Leo said mournfully, the smile disappearing. "David gave me chocolates one time. I won't ever be able to eat chocolate again."

Cristiano stared at him. "What an awful thing to say. I'm going to make it my personal mission to get you to eat chocolates again," he said, which really meant _I'll help you get over him._

Leo cheered up a bit-- as much as he could given the situation-- and they went galavanting about the grounds after that. If they had been caught, they would have been thrown in detention for months, but they were happy for the time being,  so it didn't feel wrong, and it didn't feel like they were breaking any rules.

They, stupidly, snuck into the kitchens and stole a few boxes of cereal before racing back to the large open grounds with the fields for sports.

Leo stuck his hand in the box, shoved a fistful of chocolate-y goodness in his mouth, and casually asked, "So what was that all about with Fabio?" Cristiano shrugged cluelessly. "I'm not an idiot. I know you were talking about something before you decided to become my knight in shining armor." He kicked the tree root gently, caressing it like he would a ball destined for goal.

"Right. That." Cristiano was thinking about Sergio and Ricky and how one person made him good, and the other just made him who he was, just exposed him honestly and completely. He hated both, obviously, hated anything that wasnt keeping every emotion bottled up inside, but, perhaps, he thought-- perhaps it was time to stay on one side or the other.

"So, what was it about?"

He sighed. "Sergio."

"Course. You two had some epic thing, didn't you?" Leo leaned against the tree, and Cristiano looked at him, wondering how they came from fighting in the library to walking around the grounds past curfew in their pajamas, talking about their lives like they were the closest friends imaginable.

"No. Yeah. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes exhaustedly with the back of his wrists.

Leo let out a sharp laugh. "That," he said, crunching another mouthful, "Is when you know something is really fucked up, when your first inclination isn't to tell the horrible, jarring truth."

"Hm."

"But you and Ricky are still on?"

Cristiano gave him a look like _you don't even know and you will never understand_ without the condescension that previously would have been his default. "Yeah. I'm worried about that, honestly. I really do care deeply for him. I mean, I'm actually able to tell him how I feel, unlike with Sergio. Sergio and I just fumbled our way through a half-relationship, and Ricardo and I are giving the real thing a try, but the real thing is full of stuff, like-- sometimes I don't think we're going in the same direction. He talks about going off to become a missionary, and I don't lie about important stuff. I can't tell him it's a good idea when I think he wastes his time praying to a bunch of dust floating in an endless universe. I can't support him in that kind of stupidity."

Leo chewed his cereal loudly, crumbs falling messily down his shirt. "So you don't believe in any of that stuff?"

“No,” he said, but his voice had softened. “I admire the people though, who can look at something meaningless and say it's a god."

The other boy hesitated because some things were not for him to ask, and he knew where he and Cristiano stood, and he knew that they didn’t like each other, or that they weren’t supposed to like each other-- he couldn’t remember which one it actually was anymore. He didn’t want to say something and destroy the progress behind them, but despite his worries, he offered Cristiano a handful of his cereal and asked, "Is it because of your dad?"

"Sometimes.” Cristiano stepped forward to take it. “I'd like to say always, but I think it's mostly just because of me. I used to pray when I thought my dad would get better-- exposes my priorities, doesn't it?” He threw his handful up in the air, caught half the squares in his mouth on their way down. “I do good things for selfish reasons, you do them just because you want to be a hero.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Ricky does them because he thinks it will make some imaginary figure happy. We all have our motivations, I guess."

“I guess,” Leo agreed.

"But the thing is, one day he'll be off feeding the hungry, clothing the needy, housing the homeless. He's going to make something of himself in that world, and I'm going to make something of myself in the sports world. He's going to make people happy, and I'm--"

"--going to bring joy to people with the way you play because, when you play, the whole world holds its breath." Leo wanted to put something in words, something better than that, something about competition and life and the stars, and how everything was eternal when someone was passionate about what they were doing. And how, sometimes, watching a stupid game with eleven men and a football could fix all the problems in the world, if only for ninety minutes, but some things you just don’t say out loud.

Cristiano half-smiled at the words. "For 90 minutes at a time, I’ll change the world. But he's going to make a _difference_." 

"Yeah." Leo said. "But I have this dumb fucking theory that you were put on this slowly dying orb of nothingness for a reason, and whether your purpose is to become a cabbage farmer or play for Real fucking Madrid, you should go out and do it because you're going to make those cabbage enthusiasts or those football fans pretty happy someday, and I think that's important, and I think that's worth it too."

Cristiano paused mid-chew. "You know, for an enemy, you actually make a pretty good friend."

Leo rolled his eyes, continued, "So if you're worried about not deserving him or the whole religious disagreement, you can just stop-- and stop pretending, and stop trying to blame it on all that. Because I also have this theory that bottling emotions up inside doesn't erase the fact that you ever had them. Do you know what I'm trying to say?" He moved his eyebrows as much as he could to convey the meaning.

"This isn't about Sergio," Crisiano said petulantly, but he raised an eyebrow delicately just because he could-- the bastard.

Leo crunched his cereal. "Whatever. Don't care all that much about your love life--" He cut off, seemed to remember why he was in that position, and the pain returned to his eyes. "Just work it all out because you'll regret it later."

Cristiano dropped his cold, eyebrow-raising expression. He put his hand on Leo’s shoulder. "I'm sorry you have to go through this. Really, I am. Whoever designed the universe should have another go at it. Just scrap this version."

Leo nodded his agreement. “Tell me about it.” He looked up at the sky and, to keep himself from thinking about David or love or how exactly his friendship with Cristiano came to be, he pointed at a large group of stars. “You know these? The constellations?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What’s that one?”

“Andromeda,” Cristiano answered. Leo couldn’t figure out why he was smiling.

~~

It was the only class Sergio and Fernando had together, and they were forced to do a group project. They paired up as usual. Fernando threw his green pencil case on Sergio's desk.

"You look like hell."

"Yeah, well I didn't exactly sleep well." Sergio brushed the other boy’s pencil case aside before leaning back in his desk and opening his book with an impatient flick of his wrist.

Fernando chewed the inside of his cheek. Having grown accustomed to Sergio’s mini temper tantrums, he knew the best strategy was to find out what was wrong and get the hell out of the way while Sergio destroyed it. "Everything ok?"

"Nope," he said plainly.

"What happened?"

"Fought with...Cris." He said his name like it hurt.

Fernando looked up in surprise. "Wait, really? What about?" He took out his history notes to begin drafting the paragraphs for their slideshow. He expected a short, useless story about how Cristiano didn’t want Sergio to host a party, but Sergio really wanted to host it, and Cristiano wouldn’t host it with him, and so on and so forth.

Instead, Sergio flipped through the textbook aimlessly, not meeting Fernando's eyes. "I have no idea. It started off a little about you, but quickly became about us-- me and Cris-- and last year and..." He drifted off. "Just stuff," he finished lamely.

Fernando stopped working. He set his pencil down with a calm expression that looked like it was forced and wavering. "What, does he still have feelings for you or something?"

"No," Sergio replied. "He never had feelings for me." He still wouldn't look Fernando in the eye because it wasnt like he stopped loving Fernando. It was like something inside of him had been sleeping for ages and was awoken with the fight. It would have been simpler if Sergio had just stopped loving Fernando and started loving Cristiano. It would have been so much easier if the universe just worked in perfect, mysterious ways and people only ever fell in love once.

"And did you ever have feelings for him?" He wasn’t angry, not yet.

"You know that I did,” Sergio answered with unflinching honesty.

"And do you still." It hardly counted as a question if he already knew the answer.

Sergio hesitated. Rubbed his eyes. "I think I just need some sleep, that's all. I never even gave this thought before today, I swear, and I'm not giving it thought now-- I just." He groaned quietly, struggling to find the words to make Fernando understand that he wasn’t abandoning ship; he was just confused and incredibly frustrated because his best friend was a ticking time bomb.

"You just, what?" Fernando snapped, hurt apparent in his eyes. His mouth tightened into a firm line. "This shouldn't be something you have to think about." 

"It's _not_ ," Sergio protested. "I'm not thinking about anything. I'm just trying to tell you that Cris and I have history. He's my best friend. We fought last night, and it was the most ridiculous, confusing, _meaningless_ fight of my life--" 

"--which makes you think it's about something more."

"Yes." A thinly veiled fear appeared in Sergio’s eyes. He messed with the sleeve of his blazer where it was ripped and stained with marker.

"Okay," Fernando said after a second. His eyes returned to the half-written paragraph. "You do what you have to do to figure this shit out, but you better figure it out fast because I'm not your property, and I'm not a toy."

Sergio was quiet.

"Do you understand me?"

Sergio ran his finger over the marker stain again. "Yes."

~~

ricardo_kaka: I'm back now and I'm sorry I didn't tell you

crustyanus: whatever it's fine

crustyanus: how was the cult thing

ricardo_kaka: religious retreat, and it was lovely

ricardo_kaka: how is school?

crustyanus: it's alright

ricardo_kaka: I do not know what to say

ricardo_kaka: I feel as though being away has changed things

ricardo_kaka: I am coming to visit soon

ricardo_kaka: and I'd like us to talk

ricardo_kaka: not a bad thing

ricardo_kaka: just to make you understand that I miss you every day

crustyanus: yeah. Miss you too. Things are a little crazy. Can I call you later?

crustyanus logged off 4:30 pm

~~

 

Cristiano was sitting alone for the first time in ages. It was after football practice, and Sergio had spent the entire time abusing his captain's armband, yelling at Cristiano for absolutely everything, just talking nonsense as usual. Even Isco (thankfully, he made first team), who was normally cheerful and pleasant, especially to Sergio, shied away. After Sergio picked Cristiano to ensure his special torture, the rest of the team avoided him, walking by to give him a comforting pat on the back only when Sergio was looking the other direction.

He was slowly untying his laces when he saw Sergio walking towards him with Mr. Zidane (who had taken over coaching) at his side. Sergio looked like he was making excuses.

Cristiano missed him, missed the Sergio that existed before he became the better half of _FernandoandSergio_. Even if Fernando wasnt so bad after all, there was still a change. Cristiano and Sergio's friendship had been damaged-- damaged as all friendships are by the addition of a flame.

Mr. Zidane patted Sergio on the shoulder and headed off in the direction of the locker room where he would no doubt be telling all the newcomers that "no, Sergio isn't normally like this" and "no you don't actually have to be more terrified of your captain than your coach" and "Andres, for the love of god, stop letting people cut you in the line for the shower."

Sergio, however, didn't follow. He slowly walked up to where Cristiano was sitting, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, shirt off and slung over his shoulder. He stood in front of Cristiano for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, as if he needed assurance that it was okay to speak. Cristiano gave him nothing but a solid glare.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you during practice."

"No, you're not," Cristiano shot back testily. "Zidane just made you apologize because you were being fucking unreasonable." He pulled off one shoe, then the other, maintaining eye contact.

"Stop trying to take off your shoes threateningly.” Sergio impatiently swatted a stray hair off his forehead. “It doesn't work."

"I'm not trying to take them off _threateningly_ ,” Cristiano countered sourly. “I’m just trying to take them off. Not everything is about you, Sergio."

"Oh, right, yeah. Throw that back in my face. That's mature."

"Do you really want to get into an argument about maturity?"

Sergio tugged on his lower lip, moved quickly and clumsily to sit beside Cristiano. He didn't look at the other boy. "No," he said finally. "I don't really want to get into an argument about anything."

That shut Cristiano up pretty fast because he’d never seen Sergio give in first or apologize or try and calm things down. He was always the first to turn a spark into a wildfire. "Well at least we're on the same page about that.” He paused, gritted his teeth. “How’s Fernando?"

"Surprisingly accepting."

"You don't deserve him," Cristiano said without a trace of cruelty. It was almost kinder than his compliments. "No matter what you think, I don't hate him. I resent him, sometimes, but I don't hate him."

"But you do hate me.” There was a bruise on Sergio’s neck, and Cristiano thought _no, never, I could never hate you_.

But he said, "You're my best friend. Of course I hate you a little bit."

"I _am_ sorry, you know."

And then the undeniable, unstoppable shift occurred, and Cristiano wanted to push it as far as he could. He felt like he was reaching for a flame, bringing his finger closer and closer, pulling back just before he burnt himself. He had to be careful with his words, prodding and curious, never obvious; he and Sergio had a system, a way-- some kind of understanding, and words barely played a supporting role. "Are you sorry for everything?"

"I'm not sorry for telling you how I felt," Sergio said ashamedly after a moment. "And I think that means you're right, about me not deserving him."

Cristiano side-eyed him. "Oh shut up. I can't be rude to you when you're already so pathetic."

Sergio let a smile tug at his lips. It was the sort of smile he used to give Cristiano in between classes, like their secret was bigger than anything, like the pressure was going to be the death of him. And, suddenly with increasing panic, Cristiano just wanted to talk to Iker face-to-face and tell him how bad everything was getting. He felt like he was on thin ice with Ricky, like something lurked beneath the surface, and every conversation with Sergio was putting pressure on the already too thin layer. Iker would just look at him and _know_. 

“I was a little harsh on you today,” Sergio said, staring out at the pitch where Alvaro was still running drills with Isco. “You just never say anything. You keep everything all locked up inside yourself, and I don’t know how it doesn’t choke the life out of you, but it doesn’t, and you’re fine with it, but sometimes I’m not. I don’t want to just sit there and feel things quietly. I want to sit there and feel things and say I feel them.”

“There are consequences that come with saying how you feel,” Cristiano said, standing up and taking his shoes. “Just be sure you’re ready to face them.”

There was a moment of absolute inaction, and then Sergio was moving forward, recklessly and clumsily, more driven by the impulsivity in his nature than any genuine romantic thought, and when their lips met, Cristiano was responsive by default, but shocked and his chest felt frozen.

Sergio's lips were as soft as he remembered, and when he did that thing where he bit Cristiano's lip--

He pushed Sergio off, breaking the kiss, eyes wide with wonder, not anger though he wished he could express it all at the same time through one more kiss.

"I am," Sergio said breathlessly. "Ready to face the consequences. I am.”

~~

stringcheese: cris

stringcheese: don't you dare ignore me I am your favorite friend and roommate

stringcheese: cRIS this is important

stringcheese: someone saw.

crustyanus: what did people see fabio

stringcheese: you know what I'm talking about. Don't even try and play dumb.

stringcheese: you and Sergio "caught in a passionate embrace"

crustyanus logged off 6:47 pm

stringcheese sent offline messages 6:50 pm

stringcheese: this is really bad, isn’t it?

~~

 

Xabi was out with a friend. On the first day, she came in with a Real Madrid scarf, and they’d been friends ever since. She was the only one who knew he was gay, and she didn’t seem eager to spread it. She was calm, assured, confident, but she wasn’t afraid to look at Xabi and tell him what an absolute fool he was being.

They were getting dinner together (fish and chips for her, burger for Xabi with a side salad because he knew about the freshman fifteen) when Xabi started to get the feeling someone was watching him or saying his name-- some peculiar familiarity that made his head ache.

"Can I have your notes from yesterday?"

"What?" He scratched his chin. "Uh, yeah, sure. They're under my bed somewhere. I dunno, my room's a mess."

Nagore snorted. " _You're_ a mess." She dipped a fry delicately. "What's got your panties stained, Alonso?" 

He wrinkled his nose, shifted forward in his seat. She was extremely superstitious, so he took a moment to formulate his words. Anything else would have led to "shit, that sounds like a spirit, like a very very angry spirit."

"Nothing, I just-- earlier today I thought I saw someone who looked like..." He drifted off. "Steven." Her eyebrows shot up. "So I'm just a little jumpy, that's all. We talked the other night, like a week ago, but then I tried to message him again, and he didn't reply."

"Bastard," she said with feeling. "Maybe there's a reason. Maybe he's busy. Or in the hospital. Or maybe he traveled to somewhere he doesn't have cell service. Maybe he dropped his phone? Or someone could have stolen it."

Xabi smiled. He reached across the table to pat her hand. "You don't have to do that to make me feel better. I get it. He doesn't want it anymore, and that's okay."

"Is it really?" Her fingers were warm, and they clutched his blindly.

"Not really."

~~

Cesc was sitting in the library working on his term paper, for once, early. He was halfway through highlighting the majority of his second primary source (The Emancipation Proclamation-- he wasnt getting too deep into things) when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Whoa," he said. "Whoa, that was like. Ninja."

Fernando looked up. "Hm?"

"I didn't notice you were sitting here. You crept up on me."

"Oh," Fernando returned. "Well, you looked focused, so."

"Damn right I am,” he said proudly with a little bang of his first on the table. “This is my second primary source, and I only need five."

Fernando smiled gently despite himself. It was to see how Iker had fallen for Cesc with his easy smile, contagious laughter, and that look he had when he chewed on the end of a pencil.

"But you don't look too happy.” Cesc pouted in solidarity. “Was it because the mashed potatoes sucked today?-- because I swear I'm going to be upset for, like, weeks."

"They were pretty awful,” Fernando conceded. “But no."

Cesc immediately paled, withdrawing into himself. "Oh my god," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry. I forgot you and Sergio broke up. I didn't mean to-- I'm so sorry--"

"What?" Fernando slammed his book shut. "Sergio and I aren't broken up. What are you talking about?"

Cesc's mouth formed a perfect O. "I just assumed, you know, because--"

"Because of what?" Fernando snapped. There was a red blotch on either cheek, freckles standing out even more than usual.

Cesc hesitated. "Because of him and Cris kissing earlier. I thought everyone heard by now." He fell silent, breath hitching.

Fernando had gone pale as snow. "They what?" His words were barely audible, but they were packed with every shred of anger he possessed. "No, that's not possible. Sergio wouldn't. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do something like that, would he? He wouldn't, right?" 

Cesc swallowed. "They were..." He drifted off when he realized Fernando wasn't asking for clarification; he was asking because picturing it felt like siphoning lead through his veins.

Fernando stood up on shaking legs, packed up his things, and nearly ran out the door. Everything was a blur, and he tripped when he got outside, landed on the grass outside the library. Luckily, the grounds were deserted save a few messing around under a tree near the pitch.

He bent over, was sick on the tulips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he felt the slippery tracks of his tears.

~~

nando_torres: there's something you should know

ricky-kaka: ok. Is everything alright?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry 
> 
> above all, this fic is about friendship (!!!!!) so don't mistake friendship for something more. Sometimes it really just is friendship. (And sometimes they're gonna end up fucking). Also, I have no idea where Andromeda is besides what it says on the wikipedia page, so idk how easy it is to see or if they would be able to find it or anything, but just go with it for the sake of the story.


	3. To Be Trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David makes a trip from San Francisco to Stanford. Cristiano faces consequences. Fernando gets into a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been forever since my last update. I'm going to start updating more regularly now   
> I didn't edit this, so watch out for typos and sorry about that!!

Fernando was just numb until he got to thinking about that feeling he had when he was arm in arm with Sergio and smiling and feeling like the night was alive. Then he started thinking about Ricky and how betrayed Ricky had looked when they skyped right after. Like his world was falling apart. And Fernando knew it shouldn't have been like that because it was high school for him; for Ricky -- he was barely an adult anyway. But it was like that regardless of what they were supposed to feel and what was supposed to happen. 

It was the morning after, and he hadn’t spoken to Sergio. He hadn’t asked him if it was the truth, and some part of him worried that maybe he hadn’t heard the real story and maybe Sergio hadn’t cheated on him and maybe-- maybe, maybe, maybe. There were a thousand different scenarios that ran through his mind every time he thought about it-- a thousand different lies he wanted to pummel into existence, but some part of him also knew and understood and made peace with the fact that Sergio was, if anything wild. And them together-- the concept was unattainable. He was just grasping at a lie before. 

His bad luck began as most bad luck begins: when he rolled out of bed in the morning and found, to his dismay, reality was no different from how he’d left it. 

He rubbed his eyes, smelled his shirt. Stared in the mirror and tried tilting his head a thousand different ways. Nothing made his eyes look less red or less swollen. Finally, he decided on a shower because he always woke himself up earlier enough anyway. Normally he made it down to breakfast early or did some light reading or homework. Sometimes he walked over to Sergio’s room. They used to spend some mornings together. 

Fernando went from bad to worse after remembering that. He climbed into the shower with every intention of staying in there all day, turning to a pile of wrinkled, shriveled skin if he had to. It was worth it, he thought, to be able to avoid Sergio for another 24 hours. 

But he heard the familiar sounds of the floor waking up, and Fernando was nothing if not a man of routine. The sound of someone singing quite badly in the shower next to him was enough to wake him up and to pull him out of his trance. It was Fabio, and it sounded like he was dancing too. It was nice, Fernando thought, to at least not be him. 

The first thing he saw when he pulled the shower curtain aside was the smooth, muscled back of Cristiano Ronaldo. He didn’t even have to turn around. In that moment, Fernando probably could have recognized him by his flawless little toe. 

Fernando stopped in his tracks. Instead of running his mouth off like he wanted to, he tightened the towel around his waist and headed towards the sink. He would find out the truth, even if it hurt like hell, even it meant he had made a mistake telling Ricky everything that was going on. But Cristiano didn’t look particularly crushed, so Fernando had a feeling the Ricky situation hadn’t quite played itself out yet. His cards weren’t fully on the table yet, and he was willing to hide his hand. 

“Hey, Nando,” Cristiano called casually. He was fixing his hair. 

Despite knowing Cristiano and having at least a vague sense of the intricacies that accounted for his personality, Fernando narrowed his eyes. The anger that had previously been numbness was starting to take hold. “You’ve got some nerve,” he said, and he glared at Cristiano until the confusion broke and something else poured in. A mixture of guilt, pity, sympathy, and something deeper and stronger that shook Fernando, but he couldn’t explain why or what he had seen. 

In a moment it was gone, and Cristiano picked up his toothbrush. “What are you talking about?” 

Fernando stared at him, long and hard, but the spell was broken; his moment of weakness had passed. "Nothing. I'm not talking about anything. Have you seen Sergio?" 

Cristiano hesitated, his toothbrush midway between his mouth and the sink. He stared blankly at his hand for a second before clearing his throat, turning to Fernando, and giving him such an obviously forced smile that Fernando would have felt bad for him had Cristiano not just made out with his boyfriend. 

“No,” Cristiano said finally. “I haven’t seen him since last night. Maybe try the-- library.” 

“The library? When has Sergio ever been in the library?” 

“I don’t know,” Cristiano said defensively. He bent over the sink to hurriedly wash his face, drying it on his sleeve in one swooping movement. “He could be, uh, getting his homework done-- or thinking or something, I don’t know. He’s probably got a test. I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track of his schedule. I don’t know. Haven’t seen him. Sorry.” 

Everything was spoken in an uncomfortable, clipped tone. His eyes were wide with either excitement or panic; Fernando thought perhaps a mixture. A normal person would have felt merely panic, but Fernando had always harbored the theory that Cristiano operated on the fine line between brilliance and madness. 

“Sorry,” Cristiano said again. The guilt in his eyes was the only proof Fernando needed. 

+

Cesc was twirling his pencil thoughtfully, unaware of the hurricane of emotion, confusion, and heartbreak he had caused with his revelation the night before. He might have been bothered to note some kind of disturbance had he not been so occupied by the tilt of Unai's head or the way he arched his spine when he was laughing on his bed or the way he liked to pretend dancing didn't make him feel foolish. 

"I don't get you," Cesc said, with feeling. "You're so different from Iker, but sometimes I look at you and I swear you're the same person." 

"Well, we're related, so." 

He was quiet after that, and Cesc was worried he had somehow crossed the line in his attempt to communicate to Unai how much his presence meant-- the sudden depth their friendship had taken on, how Cesc was realizing what was and was not essential to his existence. 

“He went out a lot more than I did,” Unai said after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. “His parents-- our parents-- trusted him so much more than they trusted me. He could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted. My dad placed the world on his shoulders-- I know, Iker had it really rough because of all the pressure. But my dad didn’t think I was good enough to carry even a portion of that weight on my shoulders. There is value in pressure.” 

“I don’t think he would have seen it the same way.” 

“No, he wouldn’t. I love my brother. He’s probably the only family I love, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be cast away because no one, not a single person on this planet, would ever cast Iker Casillas away.” 

Cesc was annotating the chapter due that morning. He circled a word at random. “No,” he said quietly, still looking down at the page, unaware of Unai’s eyes on him. “People don’t really do that to Iker. He’s always been lucky that way.” 

“All I ever hear about his how lucky my brother is.” 

Cesc didn’t know what to say, and he wished he could be like Iker in that moment too, wished he could just pat Unai on the shoulder and spit out some perfectly worded response that managed to be packed with both meaning and logic. But Cesc didn’t speak with his mind, so he said,  “I just wish every parent would believe their kid is destined for greatness,” and judging from the look he received from Unai, it was perfect. 

The other boy brushed his shoulder. “I know.” And then a second later, he tossed aside Cesc’s book so that nothing was separating them and said, “We should go to dinner sometime, just you and me. For fun, you know? I don’t want you to think I’m some doom-and-gloom person always.” 

Unai was staring at Cesc so hopefully and so beautifully that even though Cesc knew he should have set some ground rules-- should have carefully brought it to Unai’s attention that Iker was still his brother and that Cesc was still dating him-- he couldn’t. 

 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his mouth going dry. “That will be fun.” 

+ 

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Cristiano was rooting around in his room for his copy of Catch-22. He was supposed to be eating his lunch quickly before calling Xabi to ask about sending over those notes he took last year, but he was hurried and flustered, and he was leaving his stuff lying around, forgetting his homework, thinking about the kiss at random times throughout the day and feeling his cheeks heat up with guilt, emotion, jealousy. 

He finally found his copy on top of his computer with a note in all caps from Fabio “DO NOT FORGET THIS IN THE MORNING. YOU TOLD ME TO REMIND YOU. BTW YOU STILL HAVE TO TELL ME ABOUT--” Cristiano flipped the note over: “THE THING WE TALKED ABOUT LAST NIGHT. YOU’RE LUCKY I DIDN’T WAKE YOU UP. DON’T FORGET THIS BOOK IN THE MORNING.” 

Cristiano bent over his computer to quickly type something to Fabio, too lazy to reach into his backpack to pull out his phone and do the same. 

crustyanus: thanks for the note. didn’t really help. 

Before Cristiano could shut his computer and head out to lunch, his app jumped, a notification lighting up the half-dimmed screen. _Incoming call from Ricardo_. He nervously checked the clock; he was about to grab his backpack and run to lunch, but the guilt settled in again, and he remembered their good moments and… Well, the good moments were always killer. 

He clicked the green box, and Ricky appeared: pale, shirtless, damp hair like he’d just gotten out of the shower or walked through the courtyard in the rain. 

“Hey, Ricky,” he said uncertainly, and the other boy looked confused, caught between pained and happy, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel anymore. “Look, I’ve got to get to class pretty soon, but what’s up?” 

Ricky licked his lips, preparing himself. “I feel I, uhm. I feel like we have had a very close relationship these past few months, and I think there should be complete and absolute honesty between us. I feel like I deserve that much.” 

Cristiano pretended to be very interested in his fingernails. 

“Would you not agree?” 

“I, uh, I would agree, yeah.” He scratched his chin. “I would definitely have to say that I agree.” He didn’t look back up to face Ricky, but he could tell he was wearing that unforgiving, avenging angel, Old Testament God look he had perfected. 

“So is there something you want to be honest about?” 

Cristiano took a deep breath, and in that breath, he remembered what it was like to run his fingers through Ricky’s hair, and how he liked that pleasant constriction when he called Ricky his boyfriend, and how much he hated goodbyes. 

“Yes,” he said, looking up. And he began. 

+ 

When Cristiano, Fernando, and Sergio were finally forced together, they were seated in the waiting room of the principal’s office. The new, kindly vice principal walked by with a sympathetic expression, perhaps knowing or suspecting that each of the three had fallen out of Mourinho’s favor with unique intensity. He winced a little as he walked by, probably thinking about their punishment. 

Cristiano was seated across the room, looking dull and empty, and Sergio was staring at him, thinking about how he looked a lot like a teacher after giving a long lecture with passion-- like he talked the life out of himself, and now that there was nothing left to say, his soul was hovering somewhere above him, out of reach and battling some venomous mental exhaustion he couldn’t escape. 

Fernando was standing near the door with bloody knuckles, not saying a word, just staring at the space between Sergio and Cristiano, wishing he could break something, but the problem with intangible things is that it takes a hell of a lot more than a pair of bloody fists to break them. 

“So what are you in here for?” The question was directed to Cristiano. Harsh and low from Fernando. His voice sounded beaten, like he’d been shouting. 

“Cutting class.” 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” 

Fernando hesitated. “You deserved it," he said, but he didn't look like he meant it. 

“I know. I just wish I could have done it myself. I didn’t need your help to destroy my relationship, you know.” 

“Yeah, well apparently I needed yours to destroy mine. So thanks for that.” 

Cristiano looked like he was about to say something, but he shut his mouth and stared out the window. His cheeks looked hollow, and his hands shook, but he did nothing more than stare blankly at the panel of glass that separated him from the freedom of the football fields and the Autumn rain and the way the blackness of the sky at night never seemed to scream anything but nothingness. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sergio finally chimed in. “It was my fault, and I’m--” He shook his head. “I am sorry. I know you don’t believe me. You can punch me again if you want. You can hit me again if that stops it from hurting, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Fernando looked appalled by both Sergio’s words and himself. He wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and, Cristiano, for the first time, seemed to notice the trail of blood from Sergio’s nose (half dried and wiped away by now) down to his collarbone and disappearing down his shirt. His sleeve was torn, red with blood. Something was stained dark pink on his sock. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Fernando said at last, and it sounded like he was about to lose it. “I just never want to see you again.” 

And Sergio was a fucking fool, so he nodded painfully and said, “Okay.” 

Mourinho stepped out of his office and, without looking up from a large book on the Italian language, said, "Torres and Ramos-- two detentions for the fight. You're lucky I'm not giving you more." He sighed, long and hard like they were the sole bane of his existence. Snapping the book closed, he turned on Cristiano. "Mr. Ronaldo, you will write each of your teachers heartfelt apology letters in addition to serving detention after school today." 

They agreed, too defeated to argue, too disconnected to exchange looks of disgust with one another. Fernando was the first to leave after Mourinho gave them permission. He barreled out the door with his books under his arm, his knuckles still shining pink. He scrubbed at them until he was sitting in his next class and Javi asked if he was trying to grate cheese on them. He didn’t have the energy to laugh, but Javi thought it was hilarious. 

Cristiano and Sergio, however, lingered in the front lobby a few minutes after Mourinho returned to his office. Cristiano was playing with a loose string on his pant leg, and Sergio was staring at him intently, trying to figure out the world of emotions that felt like it was encompassing him, splitting him in two, splintering his very bones and scattering him every direction instead of organizing him clearly into one pile or the other. He wished he could make it easy for himself, somehow, to choose between apologizing to Fernando completely--and actually making things right-- and the temptation that existed in the too tangible form of Cristiano. 

 

He didn’t know what to say, but Cristiano’s features were tight and drawn, so he settled on, “Are you okay?” 

“Why did you do it?” he asked numbly. “Why did you kiss me and make everything fall apart?” 

“I didn’t mean to make things fall apart,” he said. “You don’t have to tell Ricky, you know. Or you can just say it was nothing.” He seemed to shrink back in his chair, growing smaller and weaker at the thought of Cristiano saying it meant nothing. It was impulsive and wild and stupid-- very, very stupid-- but it wasn’t nothing. And, Sergio wanted to add, it wasn’t like they had even slept together. It was just a kiss, both inadequate and overwhelming. But based on Fernando’s reaction-- the whole punching him situation-- he didn’t think that careless comment would help things much. 

Cristiano sat quietly for a very long time, like he was mulling things over. Finally, he clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, turned his face towards the window, and said, “Fernando already told him, and it wasn’t like he was even pissed at me. I mean, he was, but. You know him. You know how he is, how he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and how he tries to blame himself for everything.” 

“...are you still…?” 

“Together?” He kept his face half-hidden in the afternoon light. “No. He said he would forgive me, that he could find a way to make it better, to make it right, but I said I wasn’t sure if I could. I said things were too fucked up on my end.” 

“And so you agreed to--” Sergio cut off abruptly. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair like he was just beginning to realize the damage he had caused. His impulsiveness was fun once. It all seemed like a joke. He felt like he could run around and destroy beautiful things and build them back up again in the span of a day, but some beautiful things take one lifetime to build up and one split second to break down. 

“Yes, we agreed it was better to remain friends, but I don’t think he’s ever going to speak to me again. It takes a lot for someone like that to-- It takes a--” He stopped looking outside, turned to look at Sergio directly. “I’m sick of you,” he said savagely, and then after a beat, almost gently, “Fuck you.” 

 

“Is that it then? You hate me, Fernando hates me, Iker’s gone. All my allies have abandoned me.” He tried to laugh softly, but it came out more like a choked intake of breath. 

 

Cristiano ran his hands over his face, the cool papery feel of his dry palms making him feel relieved for the first time that day. “I’ve stuck with you before--” 

 

“I know, and this is one time too many. I--” 

 

“Shut up. I’ve stuck with you before, so I’m going to stick with you this time. Alright? Just not right now. Just give me some time to hate you, and then we can be us again.” 

 

Sergio hesitated. He didn’t know how to wait. He didn’t know how to give people space. All he knew was instant gratification, passion, the blood that raced under his skin, and the ache in his bones for excitement. But, “Okay,” he said because for certain people, he would try. 

 

+ 

 

They met in the break room again. 

 

Fernando was buying dinner from the vending machine because he couldn’t bear being in the same dining room as Sergio. He bought chips, chocolate soy milk, and a cookie. His homework was the evening’s entertainment. 

 

When Leo walked in with his money tucked into his pants, Fernando was biting into his peanut butter cookie and relaxing back into the green, plush armchair next to the machine. He hardly looked up when Leo called out his name. 

 

“You okay, man? I heard you got into a fight or something.” 

 

“Who did you hear that from?” He was still on the first paragraph of Catch-22. They were supposed to read through chapter one, but it was giving him a massive headache. Despite the painful rhythm of the words, Fernando stared down at them rather than maintain eye contact with Leo. 

 

“You know how Gerard gossips.” 

 

“That motherfucker.” 

 

“Yeah, well.” 

 

Fernando made a sound at the back of his throat that was supposed to mean “thank you for saying hello” but also “please leave me alone” and maybe “this cookie is stuck in my throat but I don’t want to cough” a little too. ‘

 

“So why did you get into the fight?” 

 

“If you already heard it from Gerard, why are you asking me?” 

 

“Because Gerard likes to embellish.” 

 

“How do you know I won’t embellish?” 

 

“I dunno,” Leo said, kicking the machine until his can of apple juice popped out. “Can’t trust anybody these days, am I right?” 

 

It was meant to be a joke, but Fernando just glared down at the book in response. “You’re right,” he said angrily, just when Leo was about to open his mouth to move on. “You can’t.” 

 

“Fuck,” Leo said, thinking about David. The sun was just setting in San Francisco, and it would be windy and cold, but still just California cold and not actually cold-cold. Rain would be coating the steps to his dorm. He would be zipping up his jacket. He would be lending his scarf to someone else. Clinging to it, Leo said, “You look like you need something to cheer you up.” 

 

“Not really.” 

 

“I would force you to come out with me tonight, but I’ve got tryouts tomorrow, and....” His face went blank. He set the apple juice down on the table carefully so he wouldn’t drop the can. Some vision was gripping him, something exciting and mysterious and perhaps a bit frightening. “Fernando,” he said in a dramatic, hushed tone. 

 

“What?” Fernando asked frustratedly, flipping the page. 

 

“ _Tryouts._ ” 

 

+ 

 

Xabi’s past week had consisted of him checking his phone, putting it back in his pocket, feeling the weight of it there, and pulling it out to check again. He went to some classes, cooked a little with Nagore and a few others, even learned how to curl a woman’s hair (Nagore was bossy when she wanted to be; he never wanted to talk about it again). But the thoughts that constantly consumed him were always of Steven. 

 

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he finally called David. He needed a distraction, and only about forty-five minutes on a good day separated them.When David picked up, he hadn’t sounded too thrilled, but when he heard Xabi wanted to blow off some steam, he agreed to drive down for the night. 

 

By the time David reached Xabi’s dorm, Nagore was over and begging to come. She was wearing killer heels, and Xabi swore she did her makeup just to make it look like she could kill someone. When he made a joke about it, she turned to him, struggling to maintain a serious expression, and said, “A noble effort, don’t you think?” 

 

Because of comments like those, she and David clashed immediately. After about ten minutes in the car with them, Xabi was prepared to throw them both into the fiery pits of hell. They bickered, argued, tormented each other-- they were inseparable. 

 

“What should we do tonight?” David asked, rolling down the window. It was the happiest Xabi had seen him look in a long time. They had only grabbed lunch a few times before-- nothing as extravagant as a night of freedom with a car, the breeze, and David’s access to fake IDs-- and during those lunches, David was talkative but cranky, interesting but cynical, constantly starting a thought and then, when it led down a path that brought them anywhere near talking about high school, cut off and switched directions entirely. 

 

Nagore was tracing her name on the window. “I don’t know.” She stretched out lazily, allowing her heels to smudge the windshield, earning her a glare but nothing else from David. That in itself was a miracle. “Xabi, what do you think?” 

 

Xabi glared from the backseat. “I have nothing to say to the two of you. I can’t believe I even called you in the first place.” 

 

Nagore sighed. She pulled the mirror down to reapply her lipstick even though it was as perfect and as glowing red as ever. “Xabi’s just cranky because he saw someone that reminded him of the love of his life.” 

 

“Oh,” David said mildly. “Steven, huh? Doesn’t he go to school back in Philly?” 

 

“Yup,” Xabi said, popping the end of the word in his mouth, trying to sound like he didn’t care. He nudged the back of Nagore’s seat until she made an annoyed sound. “Drexel.” 

 

David took a sharp turn. “We’re going to a club,” he said suddenly. “We’re not going to mope around and think about our exes--” Xabi let out a dignified sigh, opening his mouth to complain that David never told him anything. “And...” David paused, holding up a finger to silence the angry ginger-scruffed fellow in the back. “We’re going to have fun.” 

 

“Fun?” Nagore echoed, tipping in her seat to shoot a look at Xabi. “Did you hear that Xabi? Have you ever heard of this word?” 

 

“Oh, I’ve heard it.” 

 

“Xabi was quite the party animal in high school,” David said, sounding like a know-it-all. 

 

“Oh he still is,” Nagore said, inspecting her nails. “That doesn’t mean he’s any fun though.” 

 

David smirked in a way that made Xabi want to bite his knuckle because his smile, and the way the car felt like it was moving so fast it could race light, and the way Nagore’s eyes reflected the night...and how when he opened the window and let the night wash over his face, it felt like he was being purified-- everything made him feel like a collection of ashes slowly being unburnt. 

 

Xabi stared out the window. He thought about broken promises. Ignoring the conversation in the front seat, he shut his eyes and listened to the wind. 

 

When they finally arrived, Xabi opened his eyes and allowed David and Nagore’s argument to filter lazily in through one ear and out the other. It was either football-related or food-related. Either way, he was hungry and he wanted to see his football. 

 

“Ever been here before?” Nagore asked as she stood cheerfully at the back of a long but fast-moving line. 

 

“Yeah,” David said, pulling a slow-moving Xabi into line behind the two of them before the couple behind them could complain about him “cutting.” The line began to move again. “But I don’t remember a damn thing.” 

 

By the time they reached the front of the line, David had gotten into an argument with the couple behind them because they were touching Xabi’s jacket and Xabi was too proud to turn around to tell them to stop fucking touching his jacket, but David just walked right up to them and shouted, “Look, leave the man’s jacket alone, alright?” And the couple shouted back, “It’s a jacket, what the hell?” And Xabi just stood on the side, watching with great amusement, thinking to himself that he could probably write a pretty decent paper about how wars were started. 

 

But before Xabi could mentally prepare his outline, they were showing their IDs, David was reaching into his wallet, people were bustling all around him, and it was growing increasingly difficult to hear. He was almost pushed into a violently excited throng of dancing individuals, but he tripped at the last second, and Nagore caught him, holding him firmly upright until they reached the bar. 

 

Someone smacked his shoulder hard, and when Xabi looked up, he almost choked because the back of his head looked like-- He blinked a few times. No, it was just his imagination. It was all just his imagination. Wishful thinking, maybe. 

 

“Let’s go dance,” Nagore said, as soon as they had ordered their drinks, and Xabi moped because he wanted time to drink just for drinking’s sake. The man behind her shouted rather loudly into her ear, “HEY, SUGAR, I’LL DANCE WITH YOU.” 

 

“Ew,” she muttered gleefully. As she walked away holding his hand, she leaned towards Xabi and said, “Pretty and stupid, just how I like ‘em.” She pranced off elegantly, somehow managing to pull off dangerous and sexy and classy all at the same time. 

 

Xabi’s head was thundering. The music was too loud. He kept seeing the back of that head. Every time he blinked, a new Steven popped up. Before he could make an excuse to hide in the bathroom, David appeared at his shoulder, ordered three drinks, and beamed. 

 

“Who are those for?” 

 

“ME,” he yelled over the music. 

 

And Xabi thought that was just a pretty great representation of how things should be. He placed his hand on David’s shoulder, nodded quite seriously, and they began to drink like they needed it to survive, or like they were trying to forget something-- to an outside, like they were trying to poison themselves. 

 

Xabi almost fell over a few times, but David held him up, and when David almost fell over, Xabi had to use the weight of the man behind them to keep them from tipping like the Tower of Pisa. 

 

“You know,” Xabi said as loudly as he could manage, “I go to Stafford. I’m an intelligible. I’m an intelli--” He shook his head. “No, I’m saying....not...that. I’m a Stapford man. I can drink.” 

 

“I’m an under-chewer,” David said, throwing his arms open, and to him, it came out perfectly as “underachiever” and Xabi nodded along like he was saying the most sensible thing imaginable, but the bartender-- now a great, very close friend of theirs-- shot them concerned, half-amused glances. 

 

“You know what we should do?” Xabi threw his arms open. “Celebrate love. Come here, man. I love you. Have I ever told you I love you?” He lurched forward to embrace David, and David let himself fall forward so their two bodies smacked together with a painful, dull thud. 

 

“Celebrate love,” David said solemnly. “Fuck the gays, right? Wait. no. I’m gay.” He turned to the bartender furiously. “HOW DARE YOU. I’M GAY.” 

 

Xabi pulled David back to him. “No, but really.” He tried to wink suggestively, but his eyes weren’t listening to him, and he just blinked at David a few times instead. “Fuck the gays, if you know what I mean.” 

 

“If you mean penis, then yes.” 

 

“Definitely penis,” Xabi said. “PENIS,” he yelled. “It’s all about the PENIS.” 

 

He and David were falling all over each other, laughing at their own stupid jokes. The groups around them were staring, whispering about the sloppy drunks, talking about how some people just didn’t know how to take care of themselves. A man at the end of the bar, sitting alone, watched with a dull gleam in his eyes, a smile growing. 

 

David was on the verge of tears for no apparent reason when the man walked over. He was tentative at first, but when he saw how completely they had lost themselves in their drinks, he grew braver. 

 

Reaching out felt like an eternity, but finally his hand connected with Xabi’s sweaty shoulder, and the other man turned to face the stranger, only to find he wasn’t a stranger at all. 

 

“Stubert,” Xabi breathed, and he turned around to vomit on David’s shoes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, if you have anything to say (good or bad!!!), please comment. 
> 
> I normally get back to comments the week you leave them, so that shouldn't be too long of a wait, but if you ever want to liveblog or have immediate questions, my twitter is @sanikersaves and my tumblr is illarras and if you for some reason (idk???) want to leave an anonymous question or message, my ask.fm is ask.fm/bellaaros 
> 
> (i swear this isn't shameless self-promotion. i am ashamed, and it's not actually self promotion i just really want to talk about fics of any kind, even if they aren't mind so send me requests and recs and stuff ok!!)


	4. Entanglements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's another party. They're all pretty stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this sucks, but i'm so tired and i need to publish. I'm really sorry it's been forever since I last published a part. I'm going to try and be better about it now since I'm excited about the new plots developing. This story is crazy. As usual, comment or tweet me or message me, etc. 
> 
> message me about typos

Things started to get back to normal when Cristiano, slowly and accidentally, began morphing back into who he was before he met Ricardo. He thought about the other boy constantly, but he hid it. He and Sergio hung out after football practice, and sometimes when their hands touched entirely by accident, he thought about Sergio too in the way he normally reserved only for his old flame. It hurt to think of the other boy as an ex-anything, so he never thought about it like that; he thought about them together as an old candle dripping wax, the flame blown out, but the foundation of the candle remaining. 

The moment he truly began to return to himself was at a party. Javi got his first A on a chem test of the year (even though he had already taken the class the year before), and he felt like celebrating, so he sent out a mass text which simply read “GOATS.” When asked about it later, he firmly insisted that he already told everyone it was code for a party. 

Cristiano, as usual, only showed up when the party was in full swing. Sergio was already drunk and hitting on Isco who was laughing playfully along but carefully removing the rest of the alcohol from the other boy’s sight. Fernando was sitting somewhere in the corner talking to Juan and even though he looked interested in the conversation, every time Sergio let out a particularly wild laugh, Fernando looked over at him with the full pain of it in his eyes. Marcelo was in the center of the room dancing, and Fabio was eating an entire bag of chips while he watched. 

Cristiano looked around for a moment before stepping inside. Not painlessly, he found himself looking around for Iker, and when he remembered that Iker had newer, bigger parties to go to, he bit the inside of his cheek and started for Sergio. Halfway there, he stopped, retraced his steps, and walked over to stand beside Fabio instead. 

“Hey,” he said. “How are the chips?” 

“Finally, you show up,” Fabio grumbled, spraying crumbs indelicately. “No one was here to make fun of Marcelo with me. They all actually think he’s cool.” He gestured to the group gathering around Marcelo, admiration oozing out of every pore. 

Cristiano smiled. “I missed this,” he admitted after a moment. “Hanging out with you guys, I mean.” 

“You always hang out with me,” Fabio reminded him. “It’s Marcelo and the rest of them you keep forgetting.” Fabio nudged his shoulder to keep the conversation light. “Remember when you weren’t too cool for us?” 

Cristiano rolled his eyes, but something caught in his throat.He remembered how he made friends first, casual ones-- the sort of you make out of convenience-- and then everything changed when he met Iker and Sergio. He began to pull away from his convenient friends, not knowing or understanding that they meant so much more. 

He knew Fabio from various football competitions they played together before high school. Marcelo he met the week school started when they both locked themselves out of their dorms. They always kept up the pretense of friendship, but Cristiano always got the feeling he should do more, be a better friend, do something to prove himself. It was always about proving himself. 

He scratched his jaw, and Fabio rolled his eyes. He always knew when Cristiano was uncomfortable, but never felt the need to point it out. 

“You seen Leo?” he asked, just to say something. 

“Yeah, he’s over there looking miserable.” Fabio pointed to Leo sitting next to a bubbly sophomore. He alternated between forcing himself to smile and widening his eyes in a silent plea for sweet oblivion. 

“Oh,” said Cristiano, distracted because Sergio was laughing again. “Right, that’s good.” 

“Him looking miserable?” 

"What?" Cristiano looked over at Fabio. "What are you talking about?" 

"You two need to get your shit sorted," Fabio said, smacking Cristiano's shoulder with his fist. For a moment, his gaze wavered between Sergio and Leo, and it was unclear to whom he was referring.  "It's pathetic watching you." 

Cristiano stuck his hand in the bag of chips. Glaring defensively, he said, "I don't know what you're talking about." There was a crunch as his fingers contracted. 

Fabio rolled his eyes. "Right." Clapped Cristiano on the back. "I'm going to get really drunk, but you have a good time over here... Moping and staring." 

Fabio left. A half-second too late, Cristiano mumbled, "I'm not moping... Or staring." But Fabio had disappeared, and Cristiano quickly headed over to Leo’s corner because he couldn’t stand being seen all alone while Sergio was in the center of the room-- the life of the party. Head thrown back, eyes shut, smile glowing. 

He smacked Leo’s shoulder, and the other boy looked grateful to be distracted from his conversation with the sophomore. Bojan, Cristiano noted, had grown his hair out, and his eyes looked bluer, but he still looked like a farm animal. 

Bojan blinked once, and Cristiano raised his eyes expectantly, honestly just waiting for the other boy to talk, more of a "What's up" gesture than anything, but the terrified kid took it the wrong way and scampered off. 

"Did you have to do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Scare him off like that. He was harmlessly flirting." 

"First of all, there's no such thing as harmless flirting." Cristiano took Bojan's vacated seat. "And I didn't scare him off. He's just easily...re-situated." 

"Isn't everyone, if you're Cristiano Ronaldo?" 

"Not everyone." And he was looking at Sergio, and Leo was looking at Cristiano wishing he could move things around with the wave of his hand. 

"Fernando?" Leo asked briefly, quietly, but not hesitantly. "Was he easy to re-situate?" 

Cristiano didn't do the whole defensive act. He just stared Leo down in a way that, had it been given a year ago, would have made Leo choke on his own goddamn scared shitless saliva. But it wasnt that way anymore, so he just looked back at Cristiano indifferently wth his heart like a stampede. 

Beside them, the party had shifted more towards Sergio by that time. He was no longer the life of the party. He was a planet with his own gravitational pull. When he stretched out his arms or smiled or moved slightly to the left, people clung to his scattered edges. 

"Why do you care?" Cristiano was looking at Sergio when he said it, so Leo couldn't tell who the venom in his voice was meant for. 

"What, about Fernando?" When Cristiano nodded, Leo bit his lip hard. "Because we're friends." 

"Sorry, are you? Or did he completely blow you off for, first Sergio, and then to be alone, and now--" He cut off abruptly and tilted his head to watch the pair with a funny expression. "Well now apparently for Juan." 

"He did blow me off, but that doesn't mean we're not friends." 

Cristiano thought it was sort of adorable how Leo stuck his chin up defiantly like his defiance could change something. "Okay," he said the way he would have said 'dream on'  if he'd lost his heart. 

"At least he didn't cheat on his boyfriend with me though, right?" Leo was biting the inside of his cheek, and Cristiano had the mad urge to grin at him. 

"Right." He stood up, and for a moment they just looked at each other, and Cristiano wanted to look over his shoulder and look at Sergio, and Leo wanted to shoot a glance to his left to watch Fernando laugh haughtily over literature with Juan, but the two of them-- Leo and Cristiano, they'd always been the lonely ones-- we're left locked into each other instead. 

"Let's go," Leo muttered, and even though he was the one saying it out loud, giving the command and taking charge, he felt like he was following, eyes lowered in submission, and he didn't particularly mind it. 

Somehow on their way out, Cristiano ended up in front. He led them down the hall and out into the black night. When they didn't stop at the field, Leo coughed. "So, what are we doing?" 

Cristiano didn't speak, just kept walking, but something in his jaw, or something in the way he looked away-- there was a weakness there that Leo had always misinterpreted as strength. He remembered the night last year when he walked in on Cristiano crying and how he'd felt that dull satisfaction. It was the first time he realized the boy was made of glass just like everyone else. 

"Hey," he said quietly, pulling on Cristiano's arm. There was a question he wanted to ask, but it was buried under years of forced silence, and a little pocket of sympathetic air wasn't enough to change the shape of his lungs or the chemical makeup of his heart. So when Cristiano turned and gave him a look as open as the night sky above them, Leo looked away. He couldn't bring himself to cut up that distance. 

"Lead the way," he said, looking at the ground, and that's just what Cristiano did. Seconds later, he was darting across the lawn and pulling a key card out of his back pocket with his fingers over his lips that let Leo know he was in on a secret. There was something about secrets that made Leo's blood feel possessed. 

When he opened the door, Leo's breath left his body like he'd been punched in the stomach. Cristiano shut the door behind them, but Leo hovered near it uncertainly, too mesmerized by the patterns the water was making in its reflections on the white tiled walls. 

"How do you have a key to the indoor pool?" 

Cristiano shrugged. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the walls, and he was a cliche of a cliche, but Leo liked him that way. He liked him when he was strolling around all mysterious and thoughtful with his plans and his feelings hidden. 

After a full uncomfortable minute in which Cristiano remained frozen like a statue and Leo nervously admired the walls, the smaller boy broke down. He scratched his chin, feeling flabby and annoyed next to Cris. "Are you okay?" he finally spat out. 

Cristiano smiled robotically. "Of course I am." 

"No," Leo said. He bent to test the water with his hand, feeling like he was on the edge of something. "I mean, like, really. Are you actually okay? You know you don't have to feed me bullshit." 

“I don’t feed you bullshit for my own benefit.” He looked back at Leo with that cold, hard shield in his eyes. 

“You don’t have to worry about me. You don’t have to worry about something like that.” 

“I don’t have to worry about how my actions or emotions impact other people?” He laughed softly under his breath, and for the first time Leo could see all too clearly how someone could be in love with Cristiano, not just obsessed with him and not just admiring from afar-- but truly in love in all the ways that counted. When he was upset like that, when his hands twisted like he didn’t know what to say, when his lips were chapped and parted-- that was when Leo could look at him and be sure he was human. 

“Tell me,” Leo said. “Just for once, tell me what’s wrong.” 

Cristiano’s gaze flicked to the ground. His hands were in his pockets again. He believed things were meant to be concealed. Not for everyone, but for him. He was always the exception, and maybe that was arrogant-- to believe that only he should live in solitude--but it didn’t feel like it. It felt more like pressing himself down into the ground with the heel of his own hand, bowing down before some phantom ideal that kept him weak, but not as weak as he could have been. 

“It’s hard,” he admitted finally, giving in to the tantalizing weakness that Leo was offering him. “To watch him be so happy. He ruins something--destroys things, people-- and then he just walks away, and I know he’s hurting too, but he can just push it off. He can get out of his skin for a little while when he’s hurting, and the rest of us are stuck. It just doesn’t seem fair.” 

The water was dancing across the walls, Cristiano’s face, his hands. Leo felt like taking one of his hands and explaining something--anything-- but he remained where he was watching the colors dance like ill preserved rain. 

“Of course it’s not fair. Nothing’s ever fair with him and with you, and especially not with the two of you together.” 

Cristiano smiled, honestly and genuinely, and Leo felt like he was being inducted into some inner circle that both attracted and repelled him. 

“Still think we’re the lucky ones?” 

Leo bent down to test the water again, hiding his face from Cristiano. This time he lowered himself to a seated position and started taking off his socks and shoes. He rolled up the leg of his pants slowly and deliberately, and when he was finished, he looked up at Cristiano once silently, and immediately he was doing the same. 

They sat side by side like that for awhile, wordlessly creating little waves with their feet until Leo stopped moving his, and he swatted Cristiano’s arm gently, and they both stopped moving their legs. And after that they just listened to the silence and watched the water still itself. 

When it became like a sheet of undisturbed glass, Leo said, “Always.” 

“Okay,” Cristiano said. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. You can be pretty stupid sometimes, but I guess that’s alright.” 

“Well thanks for giving me your permission. I’m glad I’m allowed to spill my personality occasionally.” 

And it was such a peculiar way of saying it-- spilling-- that Cristiano couldn’t help the smile that spread over his features. Sometimes he felt like he was sitting with his worst enemy with Leo, and other times he felt like his best competitor had turned into his best friend. 

“So are you still moping over David or are you ready to start looking for someone else?” 

“Are you still moping over Ricky or are you ready to start looking for someone else?” 

“Nice,” he replied flatly. At the sound of Ricky’s name, Cristiano’s foot jerked in the water, creating ripples that Leo turned, fully with his entire body, to watch. “I don’t know. It’s not like I really expected it to work out. We just thought we could try. But everything is happening here for me and there for him, and when I hurt him, it was like a nightmare, but it just wasn’t-- I never felt like I deserved--” He cut off abruptly, and his feet were making nervous circles in the water. 

“You never felt like you deserved-- what? Him or the relationship or both?” 

“Don’t know,” Cristiano said, hardening his jaw. 

“I thought you knew everything,” Leo said rudely. 

Cristiano turned towards him and, suddenly and inexplicably, had a mad urge to kiss the frustration off his lips. His hands balled into fists, and he removed his feet from the water, leaning back and rolling to the other side. He dripped as he walked toward the towel rack. 

He heard Leo moving behind him, stepping up and out, the water sighing as he moved. Cristiano stood with his back to Leo, eyes trained on the towel rack as if the towels sitting there needed to be watched intensely and carefully. 

“I’m not over him, but I want to be.” He moved past Cristiano to pick up a towel, and when he saw the other boy’s face, something changed. He paled, set the towel back down, and took a step forward with this expression like he didn’t understand anything around him, like the very fact that his lungs were filling was complicated and unproven. 

“I have to go.” His voice was distant, but that was to be expected. 

“Wait,” Leo said, looking confused and lost and alone, and Cristiano wanted to stand there for the rest of the night to make sure the expression disappeared, but he was just as confused and lost and alone, and they couldn’t be alone together. It just wasn’t right, the two of them together, and besides, kisses had gotten Cristiano into a lot of trouble lately, and he was through with the little collisions that created fissures in his reality. 

“Wait for what,” he said flatly, already moving toward the door. 

“You think Sergio is the only one who goes around destroying things and leaving them?” 

The question hung in the air. Cristiano stared at him for a long time, but the only answer he gave was the quiet click of the door as it shut behind him. 

+ 

It wasn't long before Fernando and Juan became fast friends. They did their homework in the library, they went shopping for the right kind of pencils, and they ate lunch together-- sometimes, incredibly, in silence. 

Leo was forgotten. In his damaged state, Fernando turned his pain outward, fired his sullen bullet at the only person who would look him in the eyes with the full weight of his Past. Juan only knew half of it, and that was easier. 

Instead of sitting with Leo, he allowed Juan to pull him into a new friend group. It consisted of Juan, the Brain; Fernando Llorente, the Beauty; and a little cheerful freshman named Iker Muniain. Fernando didn't know what to call him, but he was a piece of work. 

Slowly, the group began to accept Fernando. They stopped looking at him like he was about to explode, stopped whispering Sergio's name when they gossiped, and started treating him like someone who could stand on his own two feet. He liked them a lot, and he only missed Leo in the silences. Sergio he missed all the time. 

It wasn’t long before Fernando found himself comfortable enough to invite the rest of the group out for lunch, even when Juan wasn’t around. Whenever they went out, Iker was is typical bubbly, overly-enthusiastic self. Fernando always felt like he was babysitting a puppy. 

Llorente was, in almost every way, the complete opposite of Iker. Whatever impression Fernando had of Llorente before-- handsome, uninteresting, and the rest he couldn't remember-- was horribly wrong. He was strong, silent, and imposing until he laughed, and then he was easygoing, friendly, and mature. He was the most independent boy Fernando had ever met. They could go from joking about their duo they liked to call "Fernando squared" to talking about Llorente's modeling in serious tones-- all in the span of thirty seconds. He was at his most grounded when he talked about his modeling; the most human when he admitted he was worried about Iker-- Muniain, he called him affectionately. 

After sharing concerns and fears and those looks that only good friends were able to shoot at one another, Llorente surprised the other boy with a proposition. 

His golden curls bouncing as he slid into the seat across from Fernando, he clasped his hands together on top of his heaping burger (somehow the boy could eat and eat and eat and still look perfect). "Fernando," he said seriously. 

"Fernando," Fernando replied. 

"You have good bone structure," he said, without cracking a smile. 

"Thank you,” Fernando said uncertainly. He scratched his chin. 

Llorente's parents were designers, the founders of an empire, and he was their poster child. He was half a celebrity in his own right, or he would have been if he played his cards right. He should have been hanging on to Sergio’s shoulder and holding Cristiano’s books as he walked. He should have been where Fernando was just a few weeks before. But he wasn’t because he stayed quiet and he stayed invisible, but his golden curls shone like an unopened mouth containing a scream. Fernando thought he had incredible potential to be one of those assholes who grew up to rule the world, and he said so too, but Llorente just smiled. 

He chewed his first bite slowly. “I was thinking you should come to the fashion show with me.” 

Fernando looked up from his milk. He had been studying the inside of the glass because Leo just walked in, sat down at the end of a table alone, and began to eat, and Fernando would rather stare at that stupid smudged spot on his glass then see the way Leo’s shoulders slumped. 

“What did you say?” 

“I said you should come to the fashion show,” Llorente repeated patiently. “My parents are having one…” He drifted off, waved his hand around vaguely like the details of the show were inconsequential. “Anyway, they said I should pick someone out to do some promotional photos for it, and you’re invited to the show if you’re in the ad with me.” 

“An ad,” Fernando repeated. “You’re saying that--” His cheeks were tomato red. “You’re saying that I have good bone structure…. and that you want me to be in an ad with you.” 

Llorente shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal to him. Nothing was really a big deal to him. He was entirely unaffected by most things in life, except Muniain that is. “That is what I said.” 

Fernando’s mouth hung open. Leo’s loneliness was forgotten. “I mean, isn’t that at least a little bit embarrassing to see yourself in a magazine or on a billboard or something? Don’t you, like, I don’t know, get freaked out?” 

“Are you asking if the sight of my own face freaks me out?” Llorente smiled gently. He opened his burger, picked the tomato from the bread, and set it on the side of his plate. He put his burger back together and resumed eating with a pleased sigh. 

Fernando was still having trouble comprehending that anyone would want to see his face in a magazine. 

“It would certainly make some people jealous,” Llorente said casually, between bites. 

Iker, who had been uncharacteristically silent for the entirety of the conversation put down the homework he had (predictably) forgotten to finish, winked at Fernando from across the table. He rested his chin on Llorente’s arm. “Like Sergio,” he said, rather bluntly. 

“I’m not trying to make Sergio jealous,” Fernando said quickly, stung. 

“Of course you’re not.” Iker smiled sweetly as he shoved his homework to the side. 

Llorente rested a hand on Iker’s back, silencing him immediately. They had a kind of understanding that Sergio and Fernando had never shared. “That’s not why I’m inviting you, Fernando.” He paused. He wanted to say something along the lines of ‘You’re new to our group, and I want to make you feel at home because this could be your home’ but that was stupid, so he settled for, “You really do have nice bone structure.” 

Fernando didn’t understand the whole thing, but he nodded anyway, and said, “Alright, then I’ll do it,” and he sort of blushed at the end, but he was feeling pretty good about himself. 

When he rose to walk to class, Sergio was watching. 

+ 

"It just sucks that things are different now," Cesc sighed into his donut as he and Unai walked down the hall. 

Unai inhaled a pink sprinkled one and, by the time he replied, he was licking his fingers after finishing a maple bar and three donut holes. "Then break up with him,” he said finally. He’d given the comment a lot of thought, but Cesc didn’t have to know that. 

"Shut up," he said, rolling his eyes. 

"You think I'm kidding." Unai stuffed the last donut into the pocket of his leather jacket as they walked into the art classroom. “I am most definitely not.” 

Cesc shot him a bizarre look. “But I love him.” 

Unai slid into his chair gracefully, ignoring the annoyed look he got from their teacher when she noticed his leather jacket instead of a blazer. “What’s love got to do with it anyway?” he said, and he reached back into his pocket to break off half the donut to snack on during the lesson. 

“It’s a relationship, Unai. Love has everything to do with it.” 

“You’re being overly romantic.” He watched Cesc lick frosting off his knuckles. “If you’re so far away, it’s not really about love anymore, is it? It’s just about holding on. That’s why everyone else has broken up and you two haven’t. No one holds on like the two of you.” 

Cesc hated that point of a friendship where one person was just frustrated and they spat something out, and he was left sitting there with this burning ball of anger, but he didn’t want to unleash it. He never wanted to destroy, at least not something like this. He liked what he had with Unai, and he couldn’t see it blow up in his face. 

“You’re wrong,” he said seriously. “I mean it, Unai. I’m not just holding on.” Unai just shrugged. “And besides, he’s your brother. I’m your friend. Why would you even think about us breaking up?” 

“Seems like everyone else is,” he said plainly. He looked up at the presentation on Van Gogh. Took notes in art for the first time that year. “Whatever, forget I said anything. If you’re happy, stay together. But if there’s even a shadow of doubt, I don’t think it’s worth it.” 

Cesc opened his bag of donuts again. He was a stress eater. There were sprinkles all down the front of his blazer. “Have you ever been in a relationship with zero doubts?” 

“No, but I’m just saying if you have a doubt, there’s a reason for it. And if you’re not sharing that reason with Iker -- which, judging from our conversation, you’re not -- you have a reason for that too.” He was staring at Cesc, and he stuck the wrong end of the pen in his mouth. “You’re talking about things being different. Did something change things or is it just the distance?” 

Cesc opened his mouth. Didn’t speak for a full minute. Then, just as Unai was starting to turn back to the board, he said, “Something changed.” 

Unai turned away, but he was smiling. 

+ 

When Xabi’s hangover finally wore off, it was sometime after noon. He’d skipped all but one of his classes, but he put the pillow over his face and considered suffocation when he thought about actually getting up to go to it. He was exhausted and tired and confused. And he’d been lying in bed next to a very hungover, very cranky David Villa since the night before. They’d been stuck in Xabi’s bedroom, alternating between sleeping, puking in the empty trash can placed suspiciously conveniently right next to the bed, and speaking very quietly, trying to piece together what had happened to them. 

“I saw something,” Xabi groaned into the pillow. “Someone. I think. I don’t know. I just remember being really freaked out before I passed out. Or really excited. Or really angry? I have no idea.” 

“How did we get back here?” David sounded like he was on the verge of puking again. “Like, I didn’t drive, you were unconscious, and Nagore was in the bathroom fucking that one dude, so I…?” 

“Cab? Did we get a cab?” 

“No. I didn’t pay for one. Or I don’t remember paying for one. I don’t know, man. Do you think we’ve been kidnapped and we’re in a replica of your room or--” He gagged into the trash can, and Xabi groaned, feeling his own stomach turn in response. 

“I don’t think anyone cares that much about us. To design a whole replica of my dorm room would be really, really intense.” 

“What if they, like, intensely love you?” 

“Shut the fuck up. We’re in my room, alright?” 

“Alright,” David replied mildly. “I just don’t know how we got back here. I’m not completely sure we are here. My head hurts so fucking bad. And my throat. I think I puked up my clone. Check the room, Xabi. Make sure my clone isn’t frolicking around. I’m dangerous.” 

“He’s frolicking in the corner,” Xabi said without removing the pillow from his face. “Kill it with fire.” 

"Fire cannot kill me," David grumbled in a monotone voice. "Only love and happiness, which also coincidentally give me migraines and hives." 

Xabi snorted as quietly as he could manage. "Dude," he said softly, reminding himself a little of Sergio, and that hit him like a ton of bricks. "Are we going to talk about our romantic situations." 

"Romantic situations?" David peered over at Xabi cautiously from underneath his arm. "Did we have a romantic...situation last night?" 

"Entanglement," Xabi corrected himself, shooting David an appalled look. 

"Did we...tangle?" 

"No," Xabi groaned, and he would have smacked David with his pillow if he had the energy. "I mean are we going to talk about why we got so drunk we passed out and fucking forgot what happened?" 

"Life," David said definitively. "College," he added, with a hint of sadness this time. "Boys." He shut his eyes. 

"Yeah," Xabi said. "Sleep it off." 

"I broke up with Leo." His eyes remained closed. "I don't think I can sleep that off." 

"No." Xabi scratched his chin. "I suppose not." They were quiet after that because there wasn’t much to say, just too much to feel. 

David's head was down, still buried in the pillow when the door opened, but his reflexes were too slow to realize that was _wrong_ because he and Xabi were the only ones there. There were footsteps against soft, thick carpet. The flick of a light switch. David heard Xabi roll over, and then this shocked gasp that sounded like all the air in the world had just left his body. 

Shakily, “What are you-- What are you doing here?” 

And then, a low, husky laugh and a familiar voice. “I swear I’m not stalking you.” 

David turned over just in time to see Xabi staring up at Steven with this look of such wholesome adoration that David’s hands began to itch for his computer and for Leo. Then Xabi was whispering something, something that David couldn’t hear, but it was something about promises, and Steven was nodding back in that earnest way he had, and he wasn’t really smiling-- at least not at first-- but there was something in the way he held himself that was proud and decent and kind, and that was like a smile in and of itself, especially in comparison to Xabi’s huddled form. 

David put his head back in the pillow. He couldn’t bear to see it anymore. Steven was stretching out his hand and Xabi was inching his hand closer, but his eyes were afraid, and Steven seemed to sense that because he leaned forward and closed the distance, and he whispered something again-- this time too personal for anyone else even to catch a sliver of because he leant all the way and put his lips right next to Xabi’s ear and uttered it like his life depended on getting every word exactly right. 

David still had his head down when he heard Xabi say, “Me too. You know that I still do, but I just don’t know. I just don’t understand what love has to do with it anymore.” 

**Deleted Scenes:**  

Cristiano entered the room cautiously. One of Isco’s friends was sporting the beginnings of a beard, scrubbing at the stubble with a towel in the mirror like it was dust clinging to his chin. It made Cristiano vaguely uncomfortable to watch the other boy struggle with "will I have to shave every morning or will it just magically rub off?" He was looking at his face with an expression of childlike wonder. 

"Jesé, right?" He sounded exhausted, and the other boy recognized it. He nodded hesitantly. “We met at the party at the beginning of the year,” Cristiano said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m looking for Sergio. You seen him?” 

“No, I’ve been here all night and Sergio didn’t come back. Neither did Isco. He just told me to crash here because my roommate was puking a lot.” He was wearing light blue boxers and a white t-shirt, and he reminded Cristiano of himself when he was younger. 

“Oh. I’m sorry about that,” he said mildly. “Okay, well.” Cristiano took an exhausted step back. He’d been like that all night. They didn’t have classes the entire week because of spring break, so when he made the semi-conscious decision to wander the school grounds the entire night before passing out around six near the basketball courts, he wasn’t too concerned about missing anything important due to exhaustion. He just had too much on his mind to sleep. 

Jesé rubbed at his face with the towel again, and Cristiano sighed. “You can borrow my razor if you want. It’s gross but necessary. That looks like someone threw up pubic hair and superglued it to your face.” 

“Thanks?” 

“You’re welcome. Just come by my room later. I’m going to sleep now, but when you decide to remove that offensive mess from your face…” 

“Come find you?” 

“Yeah, come find me.” 

Jesé smiled. “Will do. Thanks.” He looked back at the mirror. “I kind of just want to look at it for a little bit longer.” He patted his face fondly, grinning at himself in the mirror. He stared for a few more seconds before, eyes widening, turned back to look at Cristiano. “Oh, right… you were asking about Sergio. He’ll be back later I’m sure. He probably just spent the night with someone.” 

“Yeah,” Cristiano said tightly. 

“Want me to pass on a message?” 

He hesitated. “Just that I stopped by and that I’ll see him after break.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ALWAYS willing to talk fics (of any kind so seriously pls tweet/message me i need to talk fics with people) 
> 
> SPOILER FOR NEXT CHAPTER: THREESOME. MAYBE A FEW THREESOMES. I"M JUST REALLY FEELING IT.


	5. Into the Wild (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're on vacation. A two part chapter because it's too long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: mention of panic/panic attacks and claustrophobia 
> 
> this is two parts because i'm slow and you deserve an update finally also this chapter is really long, and you might get bored halfway through because some of the writing is genuine trash but enjoy anyway and look out for the next chp which should be coming out also today!

Fernando had always been careful. He never did sports, so he couldn’t exactly work off the food on a daily basis. He felt fragmented some days, when he didn’t work out, or when he ate chocolate or peanut butter or a sugar cookie. Lately it was worse, but he wouldn’t admit that to himself. When he was with Sergio, it had been a little better, not because Sergio saved him or anything; Sergio was a good enough distraction, and he made Fernando love himself a little more.

But it was all over now, and Fernando was posing with Llorente for something, and he was starting to look at his body and ache. They’d been practicing, just joking around, and he and Llorente were jumping around his room with their shirts off, pretending they were in the middle of the shoot. And Llorente was all muscle and glory with his golden curls and his abs that made Fernando want to shrink.

Finally, Fernando stopped jumping, and he was just staring open-mouthed at Llorente and eyeing himself critically in the mirror behind the bed. When Llorente noticed, he didn’t understand because he wasn’t the type of person to look at himself and understand beauty. He didn’t appreciate it, not like Sergio appreciated and manipulated it.

“Is something wrong?”

The words were still echoing in Fernando’s ears, hours later, after he had pretended everything was fine and continued jumping and staring and wishing. They were pressing into his brain like little sharp footprints.

It was a Wednesday night, and he was letting things echo while he sat in front of the vending machine with a goddamn candy bar and a mini jar of nutella. Egg for breakfast, sandwich for lunch, half a bowl of pasta for dinner. He added the candy bar and nutella to his mental list, and he hated himself as he shoved the candy bar in his mouth, but it tasted so goddamn good, and he was so goddamn empty. It was like Sergio with drinking sometimes, except Fernando’s vice was far less glamorous. Sticky, guilty fingers didn’t have the same shine shot glasses did when held up to the ceiling.

There was a knock on the door, a small stumble, and Fernando didn’t look up, but part of him just knew. He could taste the hesitation, the overwhelming guilt. When he heard the sigh, he looked over his shoulder and relearned Sergio’s anatomy in a heartbeat.

“What is it,” he said casually, like Sergio had been interrupting his studying or something important.

“Nothing. I just left something in here.” He wandered over to the table near the vending machine.

“And it couldn’t wait until morning?” Fernando asked stiffly, as if Sergio had planned on walking in and bothering him.

“No,” Sergio replied, picking up his jacket that very well could have waited there until the next morning-- he just couldn’t sleep. “I got it now anyway,” he said, looking down.

“Ok.”

Sergio inspected the jacket. “Are you doing okay?” He picked lint off the sleeve.

“Hmmmm,” Fernando said thoughtfully. He set the candy bar firmly down on the table. He could feel the weight of the nutella, and he wanted to tell someone, but god, it wasn’t a fucking joke, and everyone always made it into such a joke. There was nothing funny-- at least not to him-- about the gradual descent.

“Let’s see,” he continued, drumming his fingers softly on the table, “My boyfriend cheated on me with his best friend, and one night I was trying to eat my nutella in peace, and he comes barging into the break room thinking things can be back to normal, but nothing is normal, and he’s really just interrupting a nice quiet moment to myself.”

Sergio opened his mouth, probably to yell, but he snapped it shut, looked hurt for a brief moment. He pulled himself together and stood up a little taller. He shrunk back down again when he saw Fernando’s expression. “Why are you here?”

“I like eating at midnight.”

Sergio nudged the chair with his toe. “You look tired. Smaller.” He wanted to tell Fernando that he missed him sometimes, but he didn’t miss him all the time, and he didn’t want to blur the lines between missing someone and loving them. He was having trouble telling them apart lately.

“Thanks so much. The night before…” He trailed off. He didn’t have to tell Sergio things anymore. They weren’t friends, they weren’t anything.

“The night before what? Are you, uh, going somewhere for break?” He winced gently, knowing his question was unwelcome. He had no place asking about Fernando’s life, not after blasting a hole in it the way he did.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual, “Me and Llorente are doing this… modeling thing. I don’t know.”

“Modeling?” Sergio sounded interested, but then again, it was so like Sergio to sound interested in it. It wasn’t like he was flipping burgers or mopping floors. Modeling was like his shot glasses, not like Fernando starving himself in the daylight and choking on chocolate and peanut butter and cookies with rainbow sprinkles at midnight.

“Yeah. His parents are doing some kind of promotional thing for their fashion show, so.” Fernando still looked at the other boy like he hated him, but he didn’t hate him at all. He wanted to watch the way his lips dried in the sun, but their sun had burned out, and his lips belonged to someone else anyway.

“That’s really cool.” He sounded genuine, and it absolutely killed Fernando. “I mean it, Fernando. I”m glad you’re happy.”

“I just said I was doing a modeling thing. I never said anything about happy. Don’t be stupid and don’t lie.” He said it like it wasn’t a big deal. He looked at his hands and felt smaller.

Sergio was speechless for a second, not quiet like he’d been slapped but staring at Fernando like all the air had been let out of his body, and he was tired, exhaustion slipping like dust from his lips.

“Anyway, since break started yesterday, I’ve just been hanging out around here until our flight." Fernando continued, the stiffness still all too apparent in his voice. He couldnt just sit there in silence. He started imagining all sorts of things when it got quiet. “I didn’t realize how many people stay here for break.”

“Yeah, well, their parents don’t want them home, so.”

And, Fernando, who had always been begged by both his parents to return home in his spare time, narrowed his eyes. “That’s an awful thing to say. Why do you always have to do stuff like that?”

A flame jumped in Sergio’s eyes, and he approached the vending machine again, just for something to do. He unfurled a dollar.

“Obviously just to bother you, Fernando.”

He flattened the bill between his fingers with a wry smile. He looked like Cristiano like that. Fernando hated to think about it, but there was a burning similarity there that, he supposed, made things undeniable. He just wished people had the decency to deny themselves of pleasures that took a giant shit on everyone else around them.

The machine wouldn’t take the dollar, and Sergio’s hands weren’t steady. He let out a frustrated sigh before flattening the bill again on the side of the machine just praying the friction wouldn’t make it tear.

“So are you flying out today?” He fed the machine the dollar and pressed a button at random. One of those packaged peanut butter cookies. He fucking hated those cookies. It tasted like cement was birthing a bitter, dusty child in his mouth.

“Yeah. Later. I’m taking the shuttle down to the airport with Cristiano.” Sergio kept his back turned. He fumbled with the plastic wrapper. “Saw his name on the list. Sure you don’t want to join?”

Sergio turned around. “I don’t want this,” he said, ignoring Fernando’s jibe. “Want it?” He left the cookie on the table, and Fernando felt like throwing up.

They were quiet for a long time, and Sergio was just looking around the room uncomfortably, and Fernando was sitting down with his homework and his food and the cookie sitting in front of him.

“That’s not fair,” he said finally. “That you can just blow off everything I have to say.”

“I’m not blowing it off. You’re confusing me. One second we’re talking like we can be civil and the next you rub it in my face like I meant to hurt you.” Fernando’s stare hardened. “Is that what you think? That I meant to hurt you?”

“Some part of you did. Some part of you knew exactly what you were doing, and you did it anyway.”

“It was one kiss, Fer. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t--”

He unclenched his fists. “But you care about him. It’s not about the goddamn kiss. You could have kissed seventeen people, and I wouldn’t have given a shit, but it was him. It was him. And everyone knows-- all they have to do is look at you-- and everyone knows what was between you, and what will always be between you. You could have kissed anyone in the world, and I wouldn’t have cared-- anyone but him.”

“Just because I care about him doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“Bullshit,” Fernando snapped, and they were both reminded of Fernando’s pale fists crashing into Sergio’s jaw when the situation first erupted. Sergio set his jaw, and the other boy knew he wasn’t going to give in because he was Sergio, and even when he knew he was absolutely 100% wrong, he didn’t admit it and he didn’t give in.

He rocked back in his chair. “Look, forget it. I didn’t mean to start a fight. I’m done with fighting. I’m done with you. I guess I am a little happy,” he said hollowly. “In case you were wondering.”

“Okay,” Sergio said, and suddenly there was an unbearable pain, and he had to get out of the room to escape his own selfishness.

“So are you going anywhere for break?” Fernando asked, quickly before Sergio could tell he was lying.

“Yeah, taking the train with Cesc to see Iker. He needs to see Iker, like desperately. I don’t know what’s going on, but he asked me, and when that kid asks you for a favor…” He trailed off. “So we’re going together. Iker’s got a few friends that seemed nice enough last time I went down to see him, so I’m thinking we can hang out while Cesc and Iker are…” He cringed. “Doing whatever it is they need to be doing.”

“I can’t decide if you’re talking about fucking or breaking up.”

“Unfortunately neither can I.”

Sergio thought it was funny that neither of them considered anything else. It was either fucking or breaking up and nothing in between, and maybe that was the problem with the two of them. They didn’t know how to slowly wade through problems that trapped them like quicksand.

“I hope they’re okay,” Fernando said. “Really. We were friends for a time there. There was something golden about that before it all blew up.”

“Yeah.” Sergio laughed. He always laughed like that when nothing was funny. “Anyway.” He paused. “Anyway, I’m going to see Iker with Cesc, and that’s pretty much it.”

“Where’s everyone else going? I haven’t talked to Leo or Ricky in…” He decided not to figure out exactly how long. “How is everyone?”

Sergio hadn’t realized how much the breakup had impacted them and the group and the way everyone did things. It was all such a goddamn mess. “Leo didn’t tell me where he was going. He’s not taking the shuttle, but I know he’s on his way to the airport. I haven’t talked to Ricky. I don’t exactly…we don’t talk, not after him and Cristiano broke up.”

“And not really before that either.”

“No, not really before that either.”

“How’s David? And Xabi? I haven’t even talked to Xabi since summer.”

“Beats me.” Sergio was starting to relax, and he smiled, remembering the summer and the parties and the way Fernando looked in the middle of the night. “I texted David a bit, and he’s pretty sore about the breakup. Think he just needs a little time, and then he’ll be back to normal. With Xabi, I have no idea.”

“He never gives you a hint, does he.” He smiled begrudgingly. “Even if you went up to him and clocked him in the face and said, ‘Just tell me how you fucking feel for once,’ he wouldn’t lose it. He’d just stare back at you with those creepy calm eyes--”

“So creepy,” Sergio interjected. “Like, show some emotion, motherfucker.”

They laughed together, and that was nice, but that wasn’t the important part because their smiles faded too quickly afterwards, and Sergio looked down at his hands when he realized he wasn’t completely over Fernando and Fernando wasn’t completely over him, but it was stupid, and they were just stuck there standing still.

“And Cristiano? How is he?”

The smile wasnt just faded; it was dead. “I don’t know. I fucked some stuff up pretty bad for him. We’re not like we used to be. I don’t even really know where he’s going for break. He was going to come with me and Cesc, but I don’t know anymore. I think he might just need a break from me.”

There was such genuine care in Sergio’s voice when he talked about Cristiano, like he was counting stitches or repairing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and Fernando wanted to start yelling about ownership. But he figured there was a time and place for that, and he missed his time, and he missed his place, but they certainly did not miss him.

“I’m going to miss the shuttle,” he said.

“Doesn’t one leave at two?” He checked his watch. It was half past midnight.

“Yeah, I haven’t packed.”

“Oh, right.” Sergio backed away from the table. “Well, it was… I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It was… good. Talking to you. It was really good.”

Fernando shut his eyes as soon as Sergio turned away and started walking, and he stared at the cookie Sergio left behind, feeling hungry and full at the same time and so sick of himself that he picked it up and started chewing on the side with a voice inside his head screaming at him to stop because in just a few hours he had to be in perfect shape. How could he drop ten pounds and acquire perfect muscles in that amount of time?

The door shut down the hall, probably to Sergio’s room, and Fernando kept his eyes closed, and he kept eating. 

+ 

Fernando was waiting for the elevator doors to close with his suitcase and his backpack when Cristiano entered. They looked at each other for a moment, and Fernando saw the other boy’s eyes widen slightly, heard a tense exhale of breath, watched him consciously make the decision to remain in the elevator in an attempt to be polite. The elevator doors shut behind him.

“Heard you left the party with Leo,” Fernando began in a low voice. “Ruining one person wasn’t bad enough for you?”

Cristiano’s fist tightened around his duffel bag. “You think I ruined Sergio.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but Fernando felt compelled to answer.

“I wasn’t talking about Sergio, but now that you mention it--you do really tend to amplify his worst qualities.” Fernando shot him his best unhinged smile. “I guess a congratulations is in order.”

Cristiano swore viciously in Portuguese under his breath. He pressed the open door button desperately a few times.

“Getting uncomfortable?” Fernando asked sweetly. The elevator stalled frequently, which was why the students only ever took it when they were moving in or out of their rooms. Only useful if one had time and patience.

“More like getting late,” Cristiano returned. He smacked the wall lightly with a flat hand, and the elevator slowed, slowed, slowed further until it finally game to a rest, the whole box letting out a little sigh as if the journey from floor four to in between floors three and four was exhausting.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he said finally. And just like that, it was like the dysfunctional thing was listening to him because it gave a little bump before slamming down hard with a horrible screech.

Fernando had taken the thing enough times to understand that the gentle stop meant it would soon start working again, slowly but surely, and the screeching halt meant it would probably not work for the next seventeen years unless someone came out to fix it.

“Fuck,” Cristiano said into his hand. He was starting to look seriously freaked out, and Fernando wondered what he was so late for. Must have been super important judging from his freshly paled features.

Fernando slid casually to the floor to pull out his phone to text Llorente. If anyone could get them out of this mess quickly, it was that boy and his empire.

\-- be a little late. elevator stuck and I’m with a human bottle of hairgel.

\-- just you and Cristiano then? I’ll call the office. hang on for a few minutes and I’ll get it taken care of.

Cristiano took a deep breath and moved his hands over his face over and over again. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, can we get out of here?”

“Relax,” Fernando groaned. “A few minutes. Llorente is going to the office for us.” He almost added ‘well more for me than you’ but he thought better of it.

Cristiano tapped the screen of his phone, sweat gathering at the back of his neck. “How are you getting service in here? How long?” He pressed two elevator buttons at random, insistently and vigorously. “How long, Fernando?” he asked again before the other boy had a chance to answer. Then, again before Fernando could make a move to reply, he muttered, “Fuck” and started scrubbing at his face with his palms again.

Fernando watched him with an expression that could only be summed up as ‘what the fuck literally what the fuck.’

Cristiano unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and started flapping the collar to create a breeze. He rolled up his sleeves, eyes darting around the compact space. He pressed the ‘Open Door” button three more times before giving up, shutting his eyes, and breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

“What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck kind of thing are you late for anyway?”

Cristiano’s eyes were wide and bright with an alien light. His hands were shaking as he returned to scrolling through something on his phone.

“Nothing-- everything is fine.”

Fernando felt his pocket vibrate:

\-- they called someone to get it sorted. give it 20 minutes or so. i’ll tell my dad we’re late. going to miss the plane probably. private jet okay with u? we’ll have to ride with my dad.

\-- no i refuse the private jet and i find it offensive that you even asked

\-- thought so. i’ll pick up smoothies.

Cristiano began to pace back and forth, and Fernando was forced to put his phone away, glaring up at Cristiano harshly. “Would you fucking stop? They’ll be here in, like, twenty minutes. Just, like, calm the fuck--”

He cut off when he saw Cristiano bend over, face pale and grey like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

“Are you on drugs or something?” Fernando asked suspiciously. “Because I did a report on cocaine sophomore year, and I knew you weren’t listening when I presented.”

Cristiano shook his head, unable to speak. He slid to the ground, and his breath started doing this awful rasping thing. He couldn’t seem to inhale properly, and Fernando couldn’t help but picture his lungs as little deflated plastic bags.

Fernando inched closer, his hand stretching out but not touching the other boy’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“Just not…” He nodded as vigorously as he could manage. “...small...spaces...are not my...favorite.”

Fernando studied his hand as he listened to Cristiano’s failing lungs. He traced a blue vein from his middle finger up his wrist. “Are you okay?” he asked again, mechanically.

“Good,” Cristiano said right before he stopped breathing. He just sat there for a second, all pale and sweaty and shaking, with a horrified expression like he had just now realized he no longer had control over his body.

Immediately, Fernando leapt up, crossed the distance between them, and sat down again right next to the other boy. Their elbows brushed, and Cristiano recoiled, struggling to breathe through his nose instead.

“You need to breathe,” Fernando said unhelpfully.

Pale and sick and gasping for breath, he finally managed a full inhale, spitting out, “Is that so?”

Fernando hesitated, his hand inching closer to Cristiano’s. “Can I touch your hand?” He winced at the way it sounded, but Cristiano seemed to appreciate the warning. He tensed for a moment like everything in his body was hurting and resisting, and then he nodded, body still tense like he was going to pounce.

Fernando took his hand, moving his thumbs in small, slow circles. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing to tell someone, like, in a situation like this, but it seemed like the right thing to say. I just want you to know that everything will be okay.”

The distraction of Fernando’s words brought more color to Cristiano’s cheeks. “You shouldn’t even be trying to make me better,” he said, looking like he was seconds from pouncing or collapsing.

Fernando moved his thumb in soothing circles again, thinking about whose body that hand had touched. The circles faltered, but when Cristiano’s breathing became more erratic, he started up again, brushing thoughts of Sergio aside. He was saving someone from their own damn lungs bursting over a little bit of enclosed darkness. He didn’t need motivation from his ex-boyfriend to do that. It wasn’t fucking about Sergio.

“Look at me,” he said calmly, and Cristiano did. “I am not going to let you hurt like this over something so stupid. I need you to try and match your breathing to mine, okay? I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do, but…” He faltered. Panic started to seep in. “...if you could just try,” he finished weakly.

Cristiano nodded, chuckling weakly. “I know I take this thing all the time. I’ve taken elevators before. I take them--” He cut off, and his eyes almost rolled back. “I just…”

“You don’t need to make excuses. Just breathe, okay?” 

And he inhaled. 

+ 

gingerpubes: when are you getting here

crustyanus: idk it takes like 6 hours and i’m on the 5 flight sooo

crustyanus: 11

gingerpubes: okay

gingerpubes: okay good because we need to talk

crustyanus: this sounds serious did you try baking again?

gingerpubes: NO don’t remind me of that miserable experience. the world tell us we can do anything

gingerpubes: that anything is possible

gingerpubes: nEVER give in, they tell us

gingerpubes: follow your heart!!!!!

gingerpubes: but if your heart says baking and you can’t fucking bake, and you burn your fucking apple pie right before thanksgiving, suddenly the world is saying NO XABI STOP. STOP BAKING.

crustyanus: I don’t think that was the world xabier i think that was just anyone who tried your baking

gingerpubes: you’re un-invited

crustyanus: shut up you need me

gingerpubes: fine i do but this is actually almost as bad the baking fiasco

crustyanus: #bakingapocalypse2010

crustyanus: what is it though??

gingerpubes: Steven came by. He was visiting a friend or somethingn iDK but me and david were hanging out and we got really super fantastically drunk and then i guess i saw Steven and puked on his shoes lmAooo but not really funny it was embarrassing

gingerpubes: actually not really embarrassing bc i don’t remember it but i’m ashamed that it happened IDK. And then he got me and david a cab apparently and got us into bed idk it was really nice of him to do that

crustyanus: yay! he was a decent human being!!

gingerpubes: and then i woke up like after lunch and he came into my room while david was sleeping and he

gingerpubes: idk said he still loved me or whatever lmao and I told him that I just wasn’t sure

gingerpubes: i got really cynical and stupid, but i meant it and I still mean it

crustyanus: hwAT You DiND”T CALL ME EARLIER? JESUS XABIER.

gingerpubes: oh my god i need you to be here because steven is still here like he’s staying at his friend’s dorm and we agreed to go out with david and few others but idk. david is going to get drunk and angry bc … /his personality/. nagore is going to wreak havoc bc.../her personality/. I’m going to be left with him and confused and just looking at his stupid fucking face.

crustyanus: okay i’ll be there are you trying to seduce him or?

gingerpubes: NO

crustyanus: okok ew i have hours until the flight actually leaves. remind me why i get here so early again?

gingerpubes: security. you have a vaguely foreign sounding last name. you might get randomly selected.

crustyanus: “vaguely foreign” i think everyone has a vaguely foreign sounding last name?

gingerpubes: smith. the smiths never get randomly selected.

crustyanus: you’re starting to sound political xabier

gingerpubes: stop calling me xabier it literally is giving me wrinkles like as we speak i just sprouted a wrinkle

crustyanus: you are a wrinkle

gingerpubes: i hate you now tell me what’s going on in your life

crustyanus: uhmmmm so i broke up with ricky and sergio broke up with fernando (or was sort of dumped idk?) because sergio kissed me and said he liked me, etc., and then i was at a party recently and i almost kissed leo idk it was gross idk but i wanted to (STILL GROSS) and also sergio’s roomate’s friend is really hot and if i wasn’t so upset when i talked to him i probably would have banged him too anywayyy that’s my life

gingerpubes: i’m going to remain objective and calm

gingerpubes: i am going to. remain. objective. and. calm. tell me about the others.

crustyanus: idk about sergio. he’s an asshole, but you know, we’re still trying to be friends and shit, but it’s not really working bc it’s not the same as before. i used to always be the distant one and now it seems like he is. distant from everyone idk. sincehe broke up w/ fernando, it doesn’t seem like he really has anyone to talk to.

gingerpubes: has he talked to iker?

crustyanus: doubt it. not about this. iker’s got trouble w/ cesc

gingerpubes: ? what

crustyanus: yeah idk. unai. idk how to explain that situation but it’s happening. Not sure if Cesc realy realizes it, but Unai is hot as hell and he’s knoCking at that door

gingerpubes: what door

crustyanus: not a literal door xabi a figurative door

gignerpubes: what are you “figuring”

crustyanus: IDK XABI the door to his asshole??? bottom line is unai wants him and everyone can see lmaoo he thinks everyone thinks he’s straight but we all know. like it’s so obvious.

gingerpubes: don’t bother him about it

crustyanus: i’m not a fucking birth canal jfc i’m going to let him deal with it himself

gingerpubes: we need ot create a list of your insults bc birth canal is a classic

crustyanus: i know thank you

gingerpubes: jesus so much happened while i’ve been gone. who does cesc hang out with now anyway? since i’m assuming your little shenanigan with sergio pretty much destroyed the group?

crustyanus: well you assumed right thAnks. he just hangs out with unai and the lacrosse douchebags. like they’re such douchebags.

gingerpubes: you’re like king of the douchebags

crustyanus: i know. that’s why i know they’re douchebags. like i hate bartra so much and i never know if it’s mark or marc or bartra or batra

gingerpubes: Batra????????? BAT RA. Sun god and winged animal at the same time.

crustyanus: you’re such a fucking nerd

gingerpubes: stfu watch… two weeks time you’ll be talking about how hard bartra bites the pillow when you fuck him

crustyanus: ew i have standards

gingerpubes: okkkaaayyyyyy lmmmaoooooo ok

crustyanus: i’m offended you squashed melon and i have to go buy breakfast but we will talk about all this when i get there 

+ 

Cesc was gathering his things to leave when there was a knock on his door, and he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Unai with his stern smile and roughed up leather jacket.

"Should I try out for lacrosse?" he asked casually, moving forward to help Cesc fold his t-shirts. He had them all organized by outfit because he was trying so hard to look good for Iker even though he knew nothing like that mattered with the two of them. This time felt different. It felt like he had something to prove, or rather something to hide.

"I thought they already had tryouts.” He rubbed his nose. “Didn't they?"

"Dunno. So should I try out?" He handed over Cesc’s ripped up orange t-shirt from the fair his eighth grade class put on. It had monkeys crawling up the sleeves and “Fabregas” printed on the back in all caps.

"Try out for football,” Cesc said firmly.

Unai gave him a long look. He had a hole at the bottom of his shirt, and Cesc's eyes lingered on it. "I'm trying to be a good person."

Cesc wrinkled his nose. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He was slow in answering. "You have everything to do with football."

Cesc snapped the rubber band around his wrist. "And what do I have to do with you being a good person?" He shifted, hooked the rubber band around a stack of wool socks and threw them in his bag.

Unai just looked back at him. He blinked. “Anyway,” he said finally, “I’m just really bad at football, so I figured I’d try lacrosse.”

Cesc scratched the back of his neck. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other friends on the team because he did, and lately he and Andres had been hanging out more, and he realized there was more to the shy, quiet kid than he thought. But he wanted Unai there because Unai had grown into his best friend. Over the summer, he and Gerard had parted ways, decided it was better to just hang out casually instead of spending every single second together, and since then, Gerard had found Cesc’s replacement on the track team, and Cesc had found his replacement-- well, he hadn’t, but he didn’t dwell on that too much.

“The lacrosse guys are douchebags.”

“I hang out with them all the time,” Unai protested.

“Exactly my point.” He smiled and figured it was best to just drop whatever Unai had been hinting at. He knew part of it, that he and Unai were attracted to each other, but he wasn’t sure how far Unai was willing to go-- and he wasn’t sure how far he himself was willing to go. He needed to be closer to Iker to figure it out.

He wanted to just be able to walk into Iker’s dorm room and look at him and realize that he was making a mistake by allowing Unai to distract him, but he knew it wasn't going to be that simple. He and Iker would see each other, and everything would be back to normal at first, but Unai would be there by his side, serving as a reminder that maybe there would come a day that Cesc wouldn’t want to hold on to Iker like he couldn’t see in the dark. 

+ 

When he landed, he decided he hated California. The heat was unbearable and the traffic was worse. People smiled when they walked by for no reason and they actually waited for the traffic lights to tell them to walk. Californians were chill, but, like, not human.

Xabi met him outside the airport in his new car. He was dressed in khakis and a t-shirt with a bull on it. Cristiano thought Sergio must have given it to him, and his smile wavered slightly. He pulled Xabi in for a hug, and they quickly exchanged travel stories. The traffic was really bad for Xabi, and he thought he wasn't going to get there on time. Cristiano's flight was delayed twenty minutes, and a baby was crying the entire time.

"You look like hell," Xabi said, clapping him on the back. He threw the duffel bag in his trunk. "But it's about to get a lot worse."

"What are you--"

David stuck his head out the window. He was grinning for the first time in days.

By the time they reached Xabi's dorm, Cristiano and David had reached an understanding. They'd never particularly been friends, even after the year before, and even after David's countless favors (hacking into the system to delete absences, deleting footage of locker room sex, fake IDs, etc), there was still a divide. But now they looked at each other a year later, a few inches taller, with much less sleep and far fewer morals. And they could stare as equals.

"So has your breakup driven you to drink?" David asked conversationally, playing with the keys Cristiano had attached to his backpack. It was a Portugal keychain Fabio gave him when he found out they were both Portuguese. Not for the first time, Cristiano was hit with a painful longing to love Fabio instead. He was a long river of reckless emotion that he needed to delete. Fabio meant simplicity and kindness, so it was no wonder they could only ever remain friends.

"David Villa," Xabi snapped from the front seat. "Dick move."

Cristiano shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm a little less anal about it now. Ill have a sip here and there, but I still won't get roaring drunk.” He didn’t want to be cruel, but it was just so tempting. “What about you?”

David paled immediately, but his smile didn’t waver. It was such a startling combination that Cristiano’s eyebrows shot up, and he felt guilty for mentioning Leo at all.

"I'm good actually," he said, lying through his teeth. He did this thing where he gritted his teeth and balled up his fists, and he looked like a tiny angry machine.

Cristiano just nodded, trying to look like he actually bought it. Xabi coughed to cover the silence in the car. Cristiano could see him gearing up to start some stupid ass weather conversation, but David saved them all just in time.

"How is he? Is he, uh--" He scratched his forehead. "Is he doing okay?"

"He's..." Cristiano thought back to the party and the silence, and the way he'd never felt such equality or competition before. He thought about the way the other boy's lips parted. Repulsed with himself, he pointedly looked out the window. "Yeah, he's made a ton of new friends, so hes doing really well."

It was a straight up lie. Leo wasnt doing too hot, and his best friend had abandoned him, but Cristiano didn't think that information was worth sharing with his ex.

“Is he interested in anyone by any chance? I’m just wondering because, you know, I just wonder about these kinds of things…” His nails dug into Xabi’s leather seats.

“Dunno,” Cristiano said, suspiciously briefly. “So where’s your dorm? What’s it like?” His questions were directed at Xabi, and David fell back against the seat, disappointed and uncomfortable.

Xabi talked about his dorm for a little while, and he could tell the other two boys were losing focus as he spoke, but he didn’t mind. He rolled the windows down, let the breeze in, and when the wind overwhelmed his voice, he didn’t speak up. He spoke more for himself than anything. He wanted to remember where he was and where he had been.

After some time, he stopped talking, and he let his hands rest on the steering wheel, burning in the sun as he drove. It took them nearly half an hour to get there. Xabi had been on some long drives in the past, with the football team’s travels and all, but those thirty minutes from the airport to his dorm were the most powerless against the heavy weight of time.

He was still feeling heavy and distant when they drove up to his dorm. He could see Nagore moving around swiftly inside with the drapes thrown wide open. When they approached the door, she threw that open too and embraced all three of them cheerfully, introducing herself swiftly to Cristiano. She passed out her coconut and blood orange popsicles, the ones she always kept Xabi’s fridge stocked with; David had three in one sitting without wincing or complaining about a brain freeze.

“So,” she said licking, “who’s ready for tonight?” She leaned against the counter in tan sweatpants and a bright pink, loose fitting t-shirt. Even then, she relaxed with class and ease though her eyes told a different story.

“I don’t think anyone could possibly be prepared for tonight,” Xabi muttered. He threw his half-eaten popsicle in the trash can, too nervous to continue. He ignored Nagore’s accusatory glare. She knew he was nervous. He and Steven had agreed to meet for something-- lunch, dinner, whatever--and it was weirder than the first time. Xabi had already turned him down again, and even though he regretted it, he knew he couldn’t change his mind, and he wasn’t sorry that he couldn’t. He was only sorry the circumstances weren’t better. He just wished he didn’t have to sacrifice so much of himself for a man he knew a lifetime ago.

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone needs to get dressed. Xabi, you can dress yourself if you stop acting like such a dramatic little baby about everything. David, I really need you to not wear the shirt with ‘motherfucker’ printed across the chest because it’s so tacky. Cristiano, try and pull something together that isn’t remotely close to…” She looked him up and down. “....what you’re wearing.”  

“At least I’m not wearing khakis,” he said rudely in Xabi’s direction.

Xabi made a face and started for his closet. “I distinctly remember uninviting you.”

“Yet here I am.” He opened the freezer for another popsicle, gesturing to Nagore as if he were toasting her. “Anyway, like I said, you need me. Who else is going to be your wingman tonight?”

The rest of the night was a blur for Xabi, but he knew Cristiano was in fact useful. When Xabi felt like talking to Steven, he allowed himself to drift away from the conversation but never too far, and he seemed to understand the panicked look in Xabi’s eyes when anything with Steven turned too serious. Cristiano would reappear at the slightest hint of panic, gripping Xabi’s elbow and laughing especially loud as if he had too much to drink, immediately and easily taking the weight off their shoulders. Steven looked away after the third interruption, amused and a little annoyed and not entirely blind to what was happening.

When finally Xabi and Steven started arguing about football and Cristiano could tell they weren’t going to run into any painful reminders of their past relationship-- besides the entirety of their existences, that is-- he slipped into the bathroom of the club to clear his head of the noise and the raucous drunkenness that was all an act but that had somehow permeated the mask he wore it on.

He was washing his hands and thinking about Ricardo when the stall behind him opened. He didn’t look up, but he heard his name called a few times. He struggled to pull himself away from the memories, turning slowly, still thinking about the way Ricardo smiled when he heard Cristiano say his name and the way Sergio’s lips tasted in the morning, and then he was blinking past an image of Leo that wouldn’t go away.

“Hey,” he said, holding out a hand to touch Cristiano’s shoulder. “You okay? You’re looking a little sick.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” More roughly than strictly necessary, he shrugged off Leo’s hand and returned to the sink, wetting a paper towel and letting it rest on the back of his neck. “Thought you were back in Philadelphia.”

“I caught a plane. My mom wanted me to visit Stanford, so I took a tour today.”

“Oh, hey, that’s cool. Did you like it?”

“I mean, it’s Stanford. It’s hard not to like.”

Cristiano nodded. The bathroom was quiet, and he shifted away from the other boy uncomfortably. Last time he saw Leo, he’d let his desires run away with him. Normally he walked on, stringing his hidden passions behind him on a cord of discontent and suppression, but lately he was spilling his emotions all over the place. Ashamed and weary, he couldn’t meet Leo’s gaze.

“You know David’s here?”

There was a long pause. “I know.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Do you think I would be here hiding out in the bathroom if I had?”

He removed the wet paper towel, feeling less light-headed and crushed. “Dunno. He’s a pretty unpleasant guy. I’m hiding out here because he’s annoying the shit out of me.” It wasn’t true at all, but Cristiano was in one of those moods. Purposely attempting to distance himself from Leo was harder than he thought it would be. He grew frustrated when people didn’t respond to him trying to cut ties.

“Who are you staying with anyway?”

“A student is hosting me. He’s pretty cool, but he expects me to hook up with someone tonight, and I just really don’t see that happening.”

“Come on,” Cristiano scoffed, “I’ve seen plenty of people desperate enough to want you.”

Leo waved his hand in front of the paper towel dispenser just for something to do. He couldn’t just stand there and look at Cristiano and see how easy things were for him. All he had to do was just stand there and people wanted him and wanted to be him. He had this magnetic presence and Leo was just background noise. “The fact that they have to be desperate to want me is pretty fucking painful,” he admitted with a laugh.

Cristiano sighed loudly, leaning back against the sink. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Why? You’re the one who always preaches about honesty. Which is pretty ironic considering you broke up with your boyfriend because you made out with your ex best friend with benefits.” Leo had this way of spouting painful truths in a thoughtful voice. Somehow it made most people think of him as a nice albeit slightly awkward kid who didn’t always know how to handle society in general, but to Cristiano, an honest truth was an honest truth, and a dick move was a dick move regardless of whether the person was soft-spoken or not.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” He was still shaky and uncomfortable, and his shirt made his arms feel heavy. He wanted nothing more than an open field and the stars above him, and a ball at his feet, and then he could play his nerves away.

Leo rolled his eyes. “And you’re acting really weird. So if you want to talk about it or whatever…”

“I know.” Cristiano turned towards the door. “Thanks. Do you want to head out there now?” He felt hurried and flushed, and part of him was still thinking about being stuck in the elevator and then on the plane, and the feeling of being in the airplane bathroom, how he’d almost blacked out. “I really want to go back out there. Come say hi, alright? I promise it won’t be that bad.”

Leo shook his head quietly. “No, that’s okay. I’m just going to wait until my group is finished, and then I can leave and pretend this never happened.”

“Leo--”

“No, I can’t go out there. I can’t see David after what he did. You don’t know what it’s like to be completely rejected and thrown out by someone you loved because you’re always the one doing the rejecting and the tossing out. I can’t walk out there like--” He looked down at his shirt, adjusted it as if he felt like burning it. “I can’t go out there like this.”

“Leo, I swear to god, you’re pissing me off.” He opened the door urgently. His actions were too erratic, and he knew it, but moving and shouting and above all refusing to think were the only ways he knew to still the panic beating on his mind. “I almost kissed you at the party. Me. You’re welcome. I know I’m hot. You know I’m hot. I might not have standards, but it’s still a compliment to you that I found you attractive even for the tiniest millisecond, alright?”

Leo was frozen. His cheeks went from pale to red, and he shifted from one foot to the other like he’d been in search of a toilet for thirteen hours. “The tiniest millisecond,” he repeated. “You can’t really have a tiny millisecond, can you? Isn’t a millisecond just a millisecond?”

“I’m literally going to throw something--”

“Alright, alright. Jesus. Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

Cristiano scowled at Leo until they reached Xabi, David, and Nagore who were flashing their fake IDs like nobody’s business and, miraculously, getting away with it. The bartender looked like he knew what was going on because he kept rolling his eyes at their ridiculous requests. No, he would not mix soda, lemonade, 5 hour energy juice, and vodka. No.

David dropped his drink. The liquid spilled, but luckily Steven caught the cup before it could smash to pieces.

“Leo,” he said, starting forward. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving for Italy on Thursday (the day after tomorrow), and I'll be basically backpacking around, so I won't have easy access to post the next chapter, but I will do my best, so if the next chapter is shorter or shittier, blame Italy. (Also enjoy the World Cup and I'm going to probably be making a few extra special posts in honor of it).


	6. Into the Wild (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> that threesome i promised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so pissed at my writing rn so if my anger is bleeding into my work, i'm sorry. 
> 
> oops no editing so help me out if you see a mistake

The photo shoot was an explosion of color. Their job was a simple one. Fernando wore a towel stained with blue paint; Llorente wore one with orange. He looked like a Greek god with his golden curls and his piercing eyes and his perfect body. Fernando squirmed uncomfortably, tried to lift his towel to cover more of his body, but the photographer impatiently tugged it down again. Ordered him to move to the left. Elbow down, chin up, long neck. He couldn’t figure out how to do that thing with his eyes that just came to Llorente naturally.

They had to take a five minute muffin break. The photographer needed to mess with his camera, and they were still waiting on some of the other models to show up. Llorente’s dad was in the back, tall and handsome like his son but with plainer eyes and a nicer suit. His wife and business partner was beside him in tight black pants and a loose blue shirt. She fidgeted with the keychain attached to her purse. Kept her eyes on Fernando like she could tell he didn’t belong.

“I’m fucking this up,” Fernando groaned.

Llorente rolled his eyes, reached for three blueberry muffins. Before he inhaled them all at once, he paused, put one down, replaced it with a chocolate pastry and proceeded to dive in. “You’re not,” he said, mouth full, spraying crumbs. “You just need to loosen up. Eat something, maybe. Don’t worry about the people looking at you.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” Fernando hissed back. He pushed Llorente’s hand away as he tried to fill Fernando’s empty plate with a marmalade croissant and two banana nut muffins. “You’re in front of the camera all the time. You know these people. They like you.” He gave his friend a meaningful look. “I’m an outsider, and I suck at modeling.”

“You don’t suck at modeling.” He licked his fingers clean of the sugar that topped his blueberry muffin. “You’re just too stressed out. Stop thinking about everything going on back home. Stop thinking about Sergio and Cristiano and whatever is happening between all of you now. Stop thinking about covering yourself up in front of the camera. Just sit back and enjoy yourself-- if you still know how to do that.”

“Shut up,” Fernando mumbled feebly. “I know how to have fun.”

“Yeah?” He tossed his half-eaten muffin back on the table and turned toward the second table where a woman was carefully splattering more towels with different colors of paint. A paintbrush in hand, buckets behind her. As she focused intently on the perfecting the purple splatter, Llorente crept up behind the table, picked the dripping blue brush right out of bucket of paint and ran straight for Fernando, brandishing it like a sword.

Fernando tried to leap out of the way, but the other boy was too fast and too cunning and he sent a volley of paint right at Fernando’s bare chest. As the paint hit him, his first thought was of Llorente’s parents. He was probably going to get kicked out, sent home, not invited back on the private jet. Worse still, they’d sit down with Llorente and tell him Fernando was the bad influence not the other way around.

But when he looked up, Fernando’s father was gesturing to the photographer and his mother was smiling with her arms folded across her chest. She said something to the photographer, without looking over, and he immediately started yelling at his assistants, camera over one shoulder.

And then Fernando found himself in the middle of a paint war with cameras flashing in every direction. They were throwing and smiling and at some point, there was a wardrobe change and they were in suits, still throwing paint and still smiling, and for the first time in a long time, his smile didn’t feel forced. The muscles in his cheeks grew weary but kept working.

Llorente grabbed his arm from time to time. Left icy imprints there. The blue paint thinned on his arm where the other boy touched. A literal blueprint of his domain.

And later, Fernando looked over and Llorente had blue paint on his lips. He flung his paintbrush again. An explosion of color. Curls bouncing, lips curling to form a smile; Fernando was mesmerized.

After it was all over, Fernando was standing on the side alone. Llorente was standing with two other models, one a bright-eyed girl with bony wrists; the other a pale, sickly looking boy with black hair and blacker eyes. They were laughing, gesturing to the paint, congratulating him on the idea. He looked down, waited for Llorente to finish, tried not to listen to their conversation.

“...with us to dinner? We’ve got room for one more.”

“No, sorry. Taking my friend out for dinner.”

“Which friend is this?” The girl sounded eager. “This Muniain character you’ve got a huge crush on?”

“No.” The blush was evident in his voice. “It’s Fernando. And he’s standing right over there, so don’t be so obvious.”

She was quieter after that, and Fernando lost track of the conversation. The boy looked over a few times. He was so handsome he hardly looked real, and Fernando had to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. They shared a few glances after that, and Fernando’s cheeks grew red enough for him to want to hide, but that was all. When the girl and the boy left, Fernando didn’t chase after him. Barely thought about him after that day. But but he provided Fernando with a source of hope. If he could laugh and blush and steal glances like a child with a cookie jar, he could move on. Because someday they would stop being little collisions and start becoming bullets. He would feel again, and for something other than Sergio.

“Saw you staring at him.”

“I heard what she said about Muniain.”

Llorente clamped his mouth shut. He led Fernando outside. They both shielded their eyes from the sun. “You say nothing, I say nothing.”

“Deal.”

“Want pizza?”

+

“You’re an absolute shit,” Iker said when he opened the door. He was wearing a purple t-shirt, gray boxers, and white fuzzy slippers with the Real Madrid crest over the big toe. His nose was pink like he was just getting over a cold, and sure enough, when his three visitors peered inside, tissues littered the floor of his room.

Unai and Cesc immediately started protesting the warm welcome, but Iker shook his head, jabbed a finger at Sergio who stood slightly behind the other two. Wordlessly, he glared at Sergio, comical only because of his pink nose and sickly complexion.

“If I have to hear about your fight with Cristiano and Fernando one more time, I swear to god I will punch you in the nose and shove a...a…” He hesitated, at a loss for words and halfway to sneezing. He opened the door wider and gestured for them to come in while he remained in the doorway, waiting for his sneeze.

Unai and Cesc filtered into the room, finding space on Iker’s roommate’s bed, which was coincidentally the only surface that wasn’t covered in snotty tissues.

Sergio stayed in the doorway with Iker, shifting from foot to foot, glancing past Iker to watch Unai and Cesc nervously. “Look, I know you’re pissed and sick and...actually...really...disgusting. But you should know something--”

“If this is about to give me a headache, don’t say it. Just don’t, for once-- for once, don’t give me a headache.”

They exchanged a hard look. “At least I always give you the truth.”

Iker looked confusedly over his shoulder for a moment. Seemed to understand that something in Sergio’s expression was more weighty than usual. He shut the door behind him, stepped out into the hall. “What the hell is the truth then.” He blew his nose noisily.

“The truth is that Cesc loves you. I mean, he loves you like I’ve never loved anyone in my life.” He looked down at his hands. Hard to say. Hard to break something with both hands. “But your brother…”

Iker took a step forward. “What about my brother?”

He didn’t need an answer. He just looked at Sergio, looked back at the door behind him, and burst through it. As calmly as he could manage, he blew his nose again and shut his mouth. Cesc stood up abruptly and blurted, “I need to pee.”

“I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” Sergio held out his arm, and Cesc scampered forward to hide under it.

The door shut behind them, and Iker sat down on his own bed. Unai was flipping through Iker’s Chem notebook, doodling in the margins and writing him huge obnoxious notes that he should have forgotten how to write in middle school. “UNAI WAS HERE.” “UNAI IS THE BEST BROTHER IN THE WORLD” “I LIKE DICK.”

“Can you stop that,” Iker snapped annoyedly after--according to Unai--like, five seconds.

Unai flipped the page. Started drawing a horse chewing up a Real Madrid jersey. It was probably the cruelest thing he’d ever done in his life, so he scrubbed it out with the eraser. “Stop what? Are you possessive about your notebooks or something?”

“No,” Iker said plainly, “But I am possessive about my boyfriend.”

Unai didn’t look up right away. He took his time shutting the notebook. His fingers were shaking. “Iker.”

“Unai.” He waited for his brother to continue, but there was nothing. Just Unai looking down at the notebook, opening and shutting it and blinking something out of his eyes. “Look,” Iker said, sucking in a breath. There had been anger before, but seeing his brother pale and shaking and miserably sorry made it disappear, and he knew that he could never in his life put himself above his brother. If Unai wanted something, Unai was going to have something. Iker would make sure of it.

“Iker, I--”

“It’s okay,” Iker cut in before he could hear an apology. “I don’t care what happened, or if anything happened. Sergio didn’t tell me anything. He just…”

“...pushed you in the right direction. I know. He said he was going to.” He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to start anything, Iker, I swear. I just.”

Iker blew his nose again just to cover his face a little. “I know you didn’t. I’m not pissed, alright? I could never be mad at you. I just wish I hadn’t been all the way over here while you two were over there living your lives. I don’t want to be so goddamn lost and confused when I finally see you again.”

Unai just looked at his hands again. “Nothing happened,” he said like he hadn’t heard Iker. “I just wanted something to.”

Iker paused. Drew in a breath.

The door opened, and Sergio walked in with a terrified looking Cesc standing cautiously behind him. “Hey,” Sergio said casually, turning to flop on the bed next to Unai. “What do you guys feel like doing?”

Cesc joined Iker on his bed, not daring to look at him. “Anything,” he said tensely. “I’m good with anything. We could eat or something.” His eyes widened when he realized going to eat meant some kind of normal conversation must be fashioned. “Or, like, see a movie.”

“Me and Unai have been meaning to check out this one thing over there,” Sergio said vaguely, gesturing in the air meaninglessly. “So how about you and Iker just chill here for awhile, and we’ll go see that...that thing.”

Cesc didn’t see them leave. He was staring at his hands in his laps, eyes half closed, misery seeping in. He didn’t think there would ever be a time where he didn’t want to be around Iker, but he was so disgusted with himself that all he could manage was a feeble smile when the door shut and they were left alone. A million excuses invaded his brain, attacked his tongue. They wrestled, but his silence won out.

“So you and Unai are friends.” He reached over to pull his curtains shut. He pushed himself under the covers and dragged his computer onto his lap. “We can watch TV if you want.”

“Yeah,” Cesc said uncomfortably. “And yeah, that sounds good. Anything you want.”

“I’m in the middle of Game of Thrones season two, so.”

“Oh good. You haven’t reached the shitty season yet.” He half-tucked himself under the covers, but didn’t move close enough to touch Iker. He was still squirming within himself. On one hand, he wanted to give in and enjoy himself and let himself fall into Iker’s side and pretend that everything was okay, but he knew that it was not. He was tempted, and if given the opportunity, he would have given into that temptation.

“So you and Unai are friends,” he said again, softly as he waited for his computer to load.

“Yeah.”

“And he wanted something to happen. Did you know that?”

There was a long pause, and Cesc picked at a loose thread on the comforter. “I understand if you want--”

“Did you or did you not know that?” Iker interrupted, his voice as harsh and cold as it had once been, before everything, before everything started.

“I knew.”

“And did you want something to happen as well?” He finally turned to look at Cesc. Sitting down, sick in bed-- he shouldn’t have looked as unforgiving as he did.

Chin up, shoulders back, strong gaze. Finally looking Iker in the eye. “I did.”

“And…” He paused, and his eyes turned to stone as if he had started speaking before the realization hit him. And when it did hit him, he was frozen in a world of crashing reality. Like glass, it fell around him, shattered, and the jagged edges drew blood. “And if he had tried something-- if he wanted it that badly that he--”

“Yes,” Cesc said hoarsely before the other boy could finish. “I would have acted on it.” Terrified, he couldn’t turn away. “Please, Iker, you have to understand how sorry I am. How I can’t even look at myself.”

“Good,” he said harshly. “Because I can’t either.”

Cesc looked taken aback. He physically moved back an inch in bed, all emotion dropping from his features. He was stiff as a board when he carefully extracted himself from the covers. He stood beside the bed, shuffled over a few inches to make room for Iker when he stood up too.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you should have. I should go back to school, and you should be angrier than you are.” He was doing those sad eyes, the same ones that Iker fell for in the first place, and he wished he wasn’t that fucked up, that he could actually look at someone when they were damaged and treat him like his wounds were beautiful.

“Nothing happened, right? So really there’s no reason for me to be…” He trailed off. Neither of them believed it. “Look, it’s not whether something happened or not. That’s not important. It’s that you were falling for my brother.” He ran a hand over his face. “I mean, my fucking brother.”

“Your fucking brother,” Cesc echoed dolefully.

Iker didn’t know how to deal. He didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do when he felt a decaying love clamping down on his existence. “You should take a walk,” he said finally. “And if by the end of it you’re still having trouble deciding, we can talk again.”

“We can break again,” Cesc said. “That’s what you mean.”

“We won’t be breaking ourselves, Cesc. Just breaking up.”

He started for the door. “As if there’s any difference.”

+

He didn’t know how it happened. One second they were in the loud, crowded club, and then there was a woman. She was dancing, and David was staring at her and staring at Leo. One second they were in front of everyone, and then she tucked her hand behind her body and led David away, and David was leading Leo. And then--

She was sitting on his lap in this tight dress that twisted Leo’s mind, but he was staring at David with an intensity that rattled his bones, and the color was bursting from his cheeks. Her pink lips parted at David’s neck, and her fingers crawled towards his belt, and there was the click of the belt buckle coming undone. And then David was staring at Leo while she was on her knees making sounds that brought the fire to Leo’s cheeks again.

And it wasn’t that it didn’t turn him on, because it did, but he was hating himself and he felt like breaking his own damn mind, wanted to hold David-- he didn’t want to hold David through the beautiful girl on her knees, who could bring them both to their knees with one crook of her finger.

She made a sound at the back of her throat, and David looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Leo,” he said in a choked, half-dead sort of way.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, and it fell down her back like tossing down a gauntlet. “Why don’t you join us, Leo?” Even his name sounded like honey on her lips.

He shook his head wordlessly. He would have looked away if he could, but he was drinking in every centimeter of the scene, every millisecond of their interaction, and he wouldn’t have been able to look away for anything.

“Don’t you know how to have a little fun?” she asked uncritically. Everything about her was sharp and intoxicating. It terrified him as much as it pulled him in.

“Yeah, Leo,” David echoed in that destroyed voice, eyes like a goddamn valley of ashes. “Don’t you know how to have a little fun?”

And he did-- he did know how to have a little fun, but this wasn’t a game. He stepped forward to play.

He approached them slowly, hands shaking. David said his name again, just as Thalia moved forward and her eyes were dark as night and full of every desire Leo was too shy to exhibit himself.

Then he was the one staring down at those eyes and that smooth collarbone while she made his body feel like it was on fire. HIs eyes rolled back, and his lips parted, and he made a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making. Some pathetic keening that made her grin like she was sitting on a throne.

He was going to fall over if he didn’t hold on to something, so he gripped her head gently, and she grinned around him, swirling her tongue. His fingers tightened in her hair, and then he felt a hand in his own hair, a whisper at his ear: “Maybe he does know how to have a little fun.”

Then he was on his back on the bed, and she was above him, and David was above him too, and he just remembered saying he wasn’t drunk enough to go through with it, and David’s fingers paused on his collarbone, and he said, “Do you need to be drunk to do this?”

And all Leo could think about was some cheesy response that would ruin the heat that enveloped his entire being.

“Okay,” he said, ignoring the question. “Okay, can we just do this.” And then David’s lips were on Thalia’s, and she moved forward to kiss Leo right after, lips still wet and swollen from clashing with David’s. It was the only way they could crash into each other-- David and Leo-- through this conductor of electricity.

David’s hands dug into her flesh, and she only grinned more like she was greater than any force, and Leo was a little terrified of her until her tongue was in his mouth, and after that it was hard to hate her and hard to fear her. She was soft and pliant, and David was tense and muscular above her, and Leo was sitting back on his heels like an idiot, just watching and feeling himself heating up. His cheeks were the color of her cherry red lipstick.

“Like this,” David said, and he started for Leo with his hand outstretched. Paused midway there, and Leo felt his body start to arch in response. He shuddered, and it snapped David out of it. He ran his hands down Thalia’s smooth back instead, trailing down and following her arm until he reached her hand, her delicate fingers spreading in response to his touch.

“Touch him,” David ordered, vulgar and authoritative with two simple words. Lust always spawned power in a void.

Then her mouth was there, and Leo felt like he was going to die again, and then David threaded his fingers through Leo’s hair, and Leo opened his eyes, and just like that, after David nodded, he unraveled. She swallowed noisily, eyes sparkling, and if Leo were in a better mood, he would have done something really uncomfortable like thanked her a thousand times for being so genuinely amazing about everything. She didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. Every movement, even if it seemed like David was giving the orders-- it was because she wanted that-- and if she wanted to order the two of them around, they would have fallen graciously.

“Your turn,” she said cheerfully to David, but, keeping his eyes trained on a panting, pink-faced Leo, he shook his head. “Alright,” she said unperturbed. “My turn then.”

And David pulled her apart with two fingers, and she yelled like the world was created just to hear her scream. She was tired afterwards, and she didn’t put on a show so she walked over to the couch and fell asleep with her feet dangling off the edge, her fingertips under the throw pillow.

Leo closed his eyes as her breathing slowed. He was still sticky, and David was still hard, and everything was so hot and kept him so flushed, but there was a gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach that made him want to approach David and face him until the world quit spinning-- and also that feeling like fucking David was poisoning himself. IT was hard to care about that sort of poisonous shit when David was so beautiful with the heel of his hand and his lust-filled eyes.

“Do you need me to…?”

David shut his eyes, bit his lip,  and then he was spilling over his hand, and Leo choked back the rest of the sentence. And for a second, just before Thalia woke up again, David’s eyes were closed and he was oblivious as Leo watched him. He was laying on his back on top of a wet patch, and then-- his mind was reeling, and then David was opening his eyes and smirking such a filthy smirk that Leo felt himself want to start all over again.

Thalia was awake again, and she walked across the room and slid between them with her sleepy catlike eyes, and she dipped a finger in the pool in David’s palm. Licked it slowly, lips pinker than ever. “Now you have to,” she said, like they were school children and being “chicken” was the worst fate.

And then her fingers were coated and approaching Leo’s mouth but at the last second she pulled it away and towards her chest. She wrote something above her left breast-- a name maybe but he couldn’t tell-- and she threw her  head back and laughed like she’d conquered a small nation. She was a little bit crazy, but she was a storm.

David drew closer, and Thalia nodded excitedly, and Leo’s head was spinning so fast and so hard he thought he was doing to be sick. David was looking at him and asking permission, and Leo half-raised his head off the bed to nod clearly and decisively and then a finger slipped into his mouth and a distinct sharp salty flavor invaded.

Leo’s head fell back against the mattress. He didn’t have any energy after that. David and Thalia half-dressed and moved to the far side of the room and had a few drinks. Leo stayed in bed and half-listened to the conversation that filtered through.

“...glad you were there tonight. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I would have…”

“...wouldn’t have even… lucky I was there…if you weren’t such an idiot…”

“...not an idiot...he would have just gone home…”

Leo squeezed his eyes shut harder.

“...wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Later, when the conversation quieted, Thalia called Leo over and asked him to wit with them, but he wordlessly shook his head and remained in bed. David didn’t even look up. Leo was satisfied and devastated.

He shut his eyes and pulled the covers over his head and decided he needed time to think but all he could do was taste. After doing nothing but making it worse, he threw the covers off his head and moved to sit at the edge of the bed. Thalia was gone from the couch; David remained. There was a second untouched glass on the table.

“When’s your flight?” David asked without looking at him.

“If you want me gone, you can just say so.” His voice was rough and quiet.

David finally looked directly at Leo, and he was reminded of how badly he’d fucked up that day and all the days they’d spent together. “Get out,” he said simply. He hadn’t wanted his voice to tremble, but it did a bit at the end.

Leo looked stunned and hurt and small, and David needed to reach forward and nudge his shoulder and tell him it would all be okay, or at least make him feel like everything was okay, even if he didn’t say it.

Leo started for the door.

"Stay."

But, embarrassed and lost, Leo turned away.

+

They were drinking and remembering. Xabi looked so good under the lights, and Steven looked so desperate. He danced like he was desperate. Like he couldn’t stand on his own two feet. That was how he always danced, but looking at Xabi made him feel unsteady and unreal.

“I could live like this,” he shouted over the music. He was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. The more he thought about it, the deeper it became, and the more he understood it. That was what being drunk did to him. Made him understand shit that never should have been understood.

“Live like what?” Xabi asked after too long of a pause. He was drunker than Steven, as he normally was.

“You. Me.” He wiggled his hips in a way that almost made him fall over. “Dancing. Drinking. These lights that make you look like--”

Xabi moved closer, and then they weren’t dancing anymore. They were just standing and swaying and making time stand still. They were the frozen hands of a clock. Meant to tick, they were doomed.

“Like what?” His hands on Steven’s back, his hot breath at his neck. Everything and nothing and combustion.

“Like yourself again. Like you’re right here in front of me.”

“I am right here in front of you.”

“Not for long.”

They split and began to dance again until the song changed, and Xabi pulled them together again and whispered some nonsense about living in the moment that no one ever quite believed but they always said it anyway, just to make themselves feel a little better for saying ‘fuck it’ and starting to breath again. Excuses, excuses. Time doesn’t stand still.

“One day, do you think?”

“Do I think...what?”

“Do you think there will be an end to all this? That we’re going to be like those…” He trailed off, threw his head back and remembered. The lazy, dripping memory clung to his vocal chords and spilled out through his laughter. “Like those forks, from our date, remember? Living together and playing football and being happy.”

“You’re drunk,” Xabi murmured against his neck. “Too drunk to be thinking about the future. Haven’t you ever heard? People make bad decisions when they’re drunk.”

Steven pulled his head back and looked at Xabi with an intensity that died under the laws of sobriety. “I’m entirely too invested in my own happiness to think about my future when I’m sober.”

“And what about me? Do you think about me when you’re sober?”

“I try not to. And then I do anyway.”

The rest of the night was a blur, and Xabi and Steven were separated. Xabi danced with people he didn’t know, and Nagore found her way back to him. She helped him puke in the bushes, and she listened to his drunken, sloppy rambling about Steven and their conversation and how the future just fucking sucked, and he just wanted to lay out on the grass and live like that forever, with his arms open and eyes trained on the stars.

“Get up,” she told him, and he did. He puked again in the bathroom, and she got into a fight with one of the men in there who demanded that she, as a woman, leave their bathroom immediately. They left after that, and Xabi felt sick. From all the puking, naturally, and from every word that somehow teased itself out of his mouth when he was trying so hard to shut himself up.

“I’m more fucked up than usual,” Xabi said when they were back in the car. He shut his eyes.

“Yeah,” Nagore replied from the backseat as Cristiano pulled out of the parking lot. “It’s because he’s here.” She threw her arm out and smacked Steven in the side of the head. He mumbled some nonsense about cupcakes.

Xabi turned around. It was still dark out. He didn’t remember much later, but he remembered that it was dark. He watched Steven sleep as they drove away. When they reached the freeway, he turned back around and put his head in his arms. Willed himself to a dreamless sleep.  

 

+

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just in the mood to write a ton of fics and kill off a ton of characters or maybe make them never happy, etc., i'm in the mood to break up an otp-- ANY otp, MY otp. beware. writing is coming soon. (hopefully. i'm going on another trip in a few days, but i WILL have internet access on this one). 
> 
> as usual, your comments are my life source and i love you all more than you know


	7. Cough Syrup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: eating disorders on the Fernando parts. Skip those if you think it will bother you and shoot me a message. I can sum up what happened so you don't have to read those parts! Please do NOT READ THOSE PARTS if you think it will trigger something!

author’s note: trigger warning. eating disorder on the fernando parts. Please don’t read if this is going to upset you! Skip his parts and shoot me a comment and I can always summarize for you so you don’t have to go through reading it.

 

Cesc was still on his walk when night came. Iker was going out of his mind pacing the length of the room. Unai was on the floor watching TV with Sergio, trying to explain to him why Project Runway was the greatest thing to ever happen to him. Finally, Iker cut in right as Unai was really getting into describing the different types of fabric his favorite designer had chosen to use.

 

“What if he got lost or something?” He wrung his hands. “You know how he does that. He gets lost a lot.”

 

“Yeah,” Unai said, leaning back against the bed. “He is pretty dumb.” Sergio slapped his arm, but Unai just shrugged it off.

 

Iker stared him down. He felt like pinching himself. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t do this; he never shouted at his brother, he never glared at him, he never ever was the reason for Unai’s suffering-- or at least he never meant to be. He loved his brother more than life itself, but Cesc. He couldn’t push Cesc into someone else’s arms, even if those arms were Unai’s.

 

“You do not get to talk about him,” Iker said quietly, his gaze unwavering. “You just don’t.”

 

No one moved, and then his roommate opened the microwave, widening his eyes like he really, really just wanted to disappear into the ground. He was a shy kid. The sort of handsome that looked incredibly good with glasses and sex hair. He was always good eye candy even if his ass was a little flat.

 

“I’m making chocolate chip,” he said, staring at the microwave. “If anyone wants one, let me know and I’ll double the recipe.”

 

“Quadruple it,” Sergio said cheerfully, trying to cover up the tension that was developing between the brothers. He elbowed Unai in the side. “We want chocolate chip, don’t we, Unai?”

 

Iker rolled his eyes at both of them. He felt sick, cold and sweaty all over. Everything was so unbalanced lately. He was walking around a new campus and talking to new people, and his life was so different from what it had been in high school. His relationship was falling apart, and his brother was growing up. He didn’t know how to fit when the space between the two boys he loved so dearly was narrowing, growing smaller and smaller until it would eventually fade from existence entirely.

 

He grabbed his coat. “I’m going to go find him.”

 

There was a still moment. His roommate stopped pouring the flour into a measuring cup, Sergio stopped angrily whispering to Unai, and Unai stopped fidgeting. He looked at Iker, and for a second, it was like everything had returned to normal. He was mischievous Unai again who snarled when his parents told him to stop pretending to be a tough boy, take off the leather jacket, and change into his suit for dinner. He was the same boy who walked into Iker’s room after his first real fight, bloody nose and wet eyes. The same boy who had tugged on Iker’s shirt and cried because he might have been a teenager but he was still too young to be brutalized. He would always be too young to be hurt.

 

Finally, as though the same images flew through Unai’s mind, he sighed quietly and stood up. “Alright, yeah. I’ll go with you.”

 

“You really don’t have to. The walk back will be awkward.”

 

“Then let it be awkward. I’m going to help you find him.”

 

Iker shuffled his feet. He tried to find another reason to say no. But he wasn’t in the habit of denying his brother anything. “Fine,” he said. “Keep up.”

 

“I will,” Unai muttered, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

 

Outside it was cold. Unai was wearing his leather jacket again, and Iker caught himself smiling gently when he saw Unai stuff his freezing hands into the pockets, hunching over and pulling the collar up like he always did.

 

“What are you smiling at? Me freezing my ass off over here? Sick bastard.”

 

Iker stopped walking. “I’m not. It just made me think of how things used to be with us.” He hesitated. “I don’t want this to get in the way of that.”

 

Unai fidgeted, shutting his eyes like he regretted speaking in the first place. He just wanted to walk around campus in the dark, silent night air beside his brother and let the quiet and the time speak for him. He didn’t want to apologize. He just wanted Iker to feel how sorry he was. He had never been very good with words.

 

Unai turned and began walking again. Hands in his pockets, scowl firmly in place, he said, “You know I would do anything for you, right?”

 

“Shut up, Unai,” Iker said gruffly. “That’s my job.”

 

“It’s not your job to take care of everything.”

 

“No. It’s my job to take care of you.” He stopped walking again and grabbed Unai’s jacket to force him to stand still too. “Before anything-- before my relationships, before my schoolwork, before my own goddamn life-- that’s your place in my world. First. Number one. You take gold every time.”

 

Unai inspected his fingernails until he had the strength to speak. “Don’t break up with Cesc because of me. I know I’m not the best brother-- or even a good one at all-- but you deserve the best, and you deserve to be the happiest of us all. Don’t let me stand in your way.”

 

Iker scoffed. “What are you talking about. The only way I can be happy in this world is with my brother by my side. Understand?”

 

“Understand,” he said, smiling despite himself. “But, I mean it, don’t break up with Cesc because of me. You two deserve each other.”

 

Iker turned around to face the path. Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m not breaking up with him because of you. I’m breaking up with him because of him and me. I’m in college, he’s in high school. In miles, we’re not that far apart, but god, if you could feel the distance.” He bit his lip and kept walking.

 

“It’s funny. I always saw Cristiano and Ricardo as temporary just because Cris is so independent, you know? And I saw Sergio and Fernando as doomed to fail because Sergio is Sergio. And Fernando needs, so desperately, someone to latch on to. Xabi is too focused on his school and his career to ever act like a proper human being, even if it is for Steven. But you. You and Cesc. I thought for sure… I was betting on you.”

 

“Yeah,” Iker said thickly. “I was betting on us too.”

 

+

 

Fernando picked at his spinach and mushroom salad. Whenever he was away from food, he was hungry and dizzy and close to passing out, and even just taking one single bite of food would send him into some kind of blissful downward spiral. But the minute it was in front of him and he could smell it and taste it and picture it filling him up, he was no longer hungry. He could feel the weight settling into him. His cheeks were getting fuller, his bones were getting heavier, his thighs were getting larger.

 

He craned his neck and threw his hand out to flatten the bag of spinach in front of him. The food label was the one part of the bag that was ripped. Damn. One cup was seven calories, right? So after two cups of spinach and three raw mushrooms chopped up and a little bit of vinegar… He rubbed his eyes.

 

“Are you honestly looking at the food label on spinach?"

 

It was one in the afternoon and Llorente was still in his pajamas. They were relaxing in his family’s mansion waiting for Muniain and Juan to show up. He was gorging himself on a turkey, spinach, goat cheese, sun-dried tomato sandwich that Fernando kept eyeing mournfully.

 

“Yeah, I was just curious about, like, the health stuff.” He scratched his nose, and a memory fought its way to the forefront of his mind. He was sitting with Cristiano, and they were trying to get along. He kept offering Fernando popcorn, and he shook his head, and there was a flicker of worry in the other boy’s eyes-- the same flicker of worry that Llorente allowed to take over his features, delicately like a feather falling on the surface of a calm pond.

 

“The health stuff,” he repeated slowly. “In spinach.”

 

“Yes,” Fernando replied defensively. “I’ve heard that-- well, some green vegetables are just, like, more difficult to digest than others. That’s what I’ve heard.”

 

“Okay.” Llorente didn’t believe him, but he had this fantastic ability to make people feel completely at ease, even when everything was falling apart in front of them. Then, after a few bites of his sandwich, he licked his fingers and said, “So, Fernando, can we have a serious talk about something.”

 

He had been preparing for this for a very long time. He knew what to say-- he hadn’t been feeling well, he ate a big breakfast, he was actually allergic to most things. He used the same few lies every time and, as he got smaller and smaller, the lies grew larger and more noticeable. Eventually, they would be able to swallow him whole.

 

“About what?”

 

“About you. I’m not trying to parent you because I know you can handle yourself and all, but…” The doorbell was ringing downstairs. He was quiet a moment as he listened for the maid’s footsteps. “But, I just worry about you, that’s all. I didn’t know you very well before you broke up with Sergio, so I don’t know if it’s this awful break-up that’s taking it out of you or something else entirely, but there is something that is tearing you apart, and I need it to stop. Because you’re my friend, alright?”

 

Fernando swallowed. He couldn’t meet Llorente’s eyes. He knew they would be full of kindness and warmth, and if he encountered kindness or warmth in this state, he would break down. He would not break down; he couldn’t, not again.

 

After a brief pause, he patted Fernando’s arm gently and said, “And I don’t want to see you hurt, okay? Each friendship has a different history. Just because I’ve known Muniain and that colossal dick Juan Mata longer than I’ve known you--” He paused, searching Fernando’s features for some sign that he wasn’t completely messing everything up. “It doesn’t change anything. So, I guess my point-- I know you’re surprised that I have one-- is that I’m here for you, no matter what. There are things that you don’t think I will understand, but I might surprise you.”

 

He gave Fernando one long, hard look that made Fernando look away quickly. He guiltily clutched his sides, starving and bare as they were. He would have opened his mouth to reject the help-- thank him profusely first, then vigorously reject the offer-- but there was movement on the stairs leading to Llorente’s side of the house.

 

Just as Fernando was about to launch into his thank you, Muniain appeared at the top of the stairs with Juan beside him. Iker scampered across the room to throw himself at the taller man. Their reunion was noisy and affectionate; Fernando and Juan’s was not. They hugged quietly and quickly before parting and sitting down side by side with their phones. Their friendship wasn’t in so many words but rather in the actions that made it possible to hold themselves together.

 

“Talked to Sergio?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want to?”

 

Fernando examined his phone. “How did I end up cracking the screen? Damn. I’m going to have to buy a new one.”

 

“Nando.”

 

“I know. These things are expensive.”

 

There was a stretch of silence, and Juan sighed. He was always just in the background sighing and hoping and-- reacting. That was it. He was always just a reaction to other people who caused these colossal events. A breakup, a party, loud crazy makeup sex. Everything he did was simply a reaction to the pain or joy of those around him. He never really had the chance to experience that pain or joy firsthand. And he’d take it. He’d take any of it.

 

“Of course I want to talk to him,” Fernando said finally. He was remembering the very first time. When his fist came into contact with Sergio’s face. That very first fight and the hatred he originally felt. That burning had faded, replaced by a new flame, stronger and brighter-- ultimately possessing an even shorter lifespan.

 

“So why don’t you?”

 

He shrugged, keeping his shoulders very tight. “I’m not really into self-inflicted torture.”

 

“And what about when we go back to school?”

 

“What about it?”

 

Juan sighed again. Fernando was very difficult to deal with. Delicate features, freckles, and those eyes. It wasn’t difficult to see why Sergio had fallen for him in the first place. Physically, at least. His personality was maddening, a quality Juan was most definitely attracted to. But he couldn’t come up with a single reason why Sergio Ramos of all people would ever find that kind of spirit vaguely attractive. He was Sergio Ramos, after all. He didn’t do anything besides, like, kick a football and piss people off.

 

“Won’t you talk to him then?”

 

Fernando hesitated. A sort of calm took hold of him, and he straightened up. “I kind of hope not. I mean--” He backpedaled, the confidence wavering. The uncertainty returned to his features. “I’ll still go back over those memories, you know? And I’ll remember right after I first found out about him and Cristiano. I’ll think about how I never wanted to see him again, and then I’ll get that feeling like forever is  a really long time to be without him.”

 

Senior year, and they were sitting in Llorente’s huge empty house, surrounding by trinkets and furniture that cost thousands upon thousands of dollars. Senior year, and they were reminiscing and wishing so hard their eyes might as well have been shut. They were too young and too rich and too lucky to be miserable the way that they were, but that didn’t make a difference. Their money and their looks and their position in life wasn’t worth a damn when it came up against the sadness that ate away at their souls. Fernando couldn’t eat a piece of lettuce without feeling like he was blowing up like a plastic doll. He felt guilty, sometimes, for being so unhappy over some food and a boy, but, then again, when he broke it down into just those two words, one was something he needed to live and the other was not. When he thought about it harder, when he let that word bleed into reality and Sergio’s face appeared in his mind, it became harder to tell them apart. He felt guilty for feeling unhappy, but that didn’t change that he was unhappy. He just needed someone to tell him that his feelings were valid simply because he felt them.

 

“But he doesn’t make me happy anymore,” Fernando said finally. He was beginning to understand something he hadn’t understood in a long time. Something about happiness and something about love. Something about Sergio, something about himself, a few things about what no longer connected them. “And I think that’s important, you know? For someone to make you happy?”

 

Juan could still see it-- He was sitting at his desk in Chem, and Sergio and Fernando walked by. Sergio was doing that thing where he threw his head back and laughed as hard as he could, and everyone stopped to stare because there was that beautiful boy with his beautiful smile and his beautiful life. Even the way he walked commanded their attention like his presence was their only source of hope in this world.

 

But Juan could not take his eyes off Fernando, quiet and unassuming beside this bright-eyed boy with a laugh like a hurricane. He raised his hand to wave; they knew each other, vaguely. Fernando didn’t see, as usual.

 

He wanted to tell Fernando that he was willing to step in and try and make him happy, but that wasn’t the point of the conversation. The point of it all wasn’t to make Juan feel better or for him to finally ask Fernando out. It was for Fernando, Juan told himself. It was so that Fernando could stop scratching at the places Sergio held him in. It was so that Fernando could finally dig into a sandwich again and not be bothered to shove his face in a toilet afterwards because of the Sin of Bread.

 

“It is important,” he said after a long time. “For you to be happy.” Not just for anyone. Just for Fernando. He didn’t care all that much about everyone else. It wasn’t romantic, just selfish. That was love though. Love is patient, love is kind-- bullshit. Love is unforgiving and heartless. The organ that represents love should never be the heart. It should be something far more gruesome and ugly, the source of death rather than the source of life.

 

They looked at each other uncomfortably before returning their gazes to Muniain and Llorente flirting in front of them. They were tickling each other, and Llorente was still eating his sandwich and trying not to laugh the rest of it out of his mouth.

 

Fernando didn’t even touch his remaining lettuce, and it weighed Juan down so heavily to not be able to help him. But people aren’t there to fix, he supposed. And he wasn’t there to force-feed them, whether it was literal food or some thought that, for once, wasn’t poisonous. Anyway, they were going off to college next year, and no one was going to hold his hand there. It’s the real world now, he thought mournfully, and this is where we go to die.

  
  


+

 

Leo was knocking on the door with his eyes full of tears, feeling so stupid and out of place that he was practically kicking it down. “Jesus. Just open this thing up already. What are you doing in there that you can’t open the door at--” He checked his phone, blinking rapidly. “--four in the morning?”

 

The door opened. “Surely not sleeping,” Cristiano snapped crabbily. “What do you want now?” He rubbed his eyes, and when Leo didn’t answer, looked closer. “Shit. What’s--Are you-- Jesus. What’s wrong?”

 

Leo didn’t answer. He just walked numbly past Cristiano, sat on his bed, and relayed what happened without flinching. He just. He was entirely unfeeling. He just needed one second to be happy. He just needed one second of his dark, fumbling existence to consist of something more than a dark tunnel and a blinking light at the end of it. Something needed to come out of the shadows and show its face and, for once, not be harmful. For once, not be poisonous. And that was why he was sitting on the edge of the bed of the only boy in the world who could possibly understand him. Not because he was anywhere near complex or because his emotions themselves were something complicated. Just because there was something about his personality and something about the other boy’s that-- worked. Clicked. Fit like a lock and key. And no matter how much they denied it, no matter how much the Fates thrashed around in heaven-- there was something undeniable there, perhaps not in the romantic sense. But it’s always so sad when some electricity can’t be translated into anything. Too potent for friendship, too disorganized for romance. A free agent, it wanders and is lost.

 

“Fuck,” Cristiano said finally, blinking. He sat on the bed next to Leo. “Are you okay?”

 

“I just don’t even know what to--” He put his head in his hands and groaned. “God. I just want something to be happy. I was normal before I got mixed up in all of this. Sure, half the time I didn’t feel a goddamn thing besides how much I was suffocating myself with boredom-- dying of boredom just from being alive. But at least I wasn’t feeling all of this. Sometimes it’s just better not to feel things, you know? I mean, of course you know. You’re like a fucking robot.”

 

“I’m not really a robot,” he said gently. He looked at Leo a long time before, slowly: “I just agree with you, I guess. I just didn’t know how to be in a relationship before my dad died, because I had this inferiority complex thing. My family is really--” He coughed and shifted in his seat, glanced to make sure Leo wasn’t rolling his eyes or looking particularly vindictive. “My family is really poor, and I always thought that defined me, and then this scout came, and he told me that I was good enough. He told me that I was so good that football could actually change my life, and it has. It’s done so many--” He cut off again, cleared his throat. “But, anyway, I just didn’t have time for relationships and I didn’t have time for feelings to weigh me down. All football all the time, or I would be cut from the team. Distractions meant being cut, and being cut meant going back home where we have one room for all of us to live in. The washer is on the roof. I just didn’t want to go back and fail my family. And so, yeah, I became a robot. It’s part of the job.”

 

“And after your dad died? Didn’t things change? When people die, everyone expects hand holding and hugging and crying.”

 

“I was good at the part,” Cristiano said with a small smile. “I was good at the crying part. Not in front of anyone, but alone in my room and outside his grave.” He nudged Leo’s arm with his own. “But I’m not talking about me right now--”

 

“My mistake. I thought everything was about you.”

 

“Just the important things.” He flashed Leo a smile. It was incredible the way he could switch on and off like a machine. One second he was smiling and laughing, arrogant and funny and shining like a spotlight was constantly trained on him; the next, he was quiet and mature and his advice was the only reason Leo could stay north of insane.

 

“So what exactly are you saying about me?”

 

“That you’re stronger than you think, and you shouldn’t become emotionless just because you don’t believe that. Bend, don’t break, and trust me, not feeling anything at all is more broken than bending and feeling a little pain every once in awhile.”

 

“If only it was every once in awhile. I’m just-- I’m really pissed off about breaking up with David, and I’m pissed off that I don’t have any fucking friends. I hate Fernando. I really, really fucking do. I hate him for leaving me for his boyfriend, and then for leaving me for his new group of friends. I just don’t understand why everyone has to choose someone over me. And I know I sound whiny. Guess what, Cristiano? I am whiny. I am whinier than anyone you have ever encountered in your life and, maybe I don’t have a reason to be, but I’m just so fucking mad about high school. Relationships suck and the people suck and the only people who don’t completely suck are going to be...graduating and moving away soon, and then I won’t see them anymore either.”

 

Cristiano took his hand, and Leo didn’t pull away. “Look, I haven’t told anyone but my family yet because I just got the letter a few days ago, and I’m only telling you now because I don’t think you deserve a lie. I can’t tell you I’m going to be here if I’m not going to be here. That’s what people have done to you for the past two years-- maybe longer-- and you deserve better than that. Anyone does. But you especially.”

 

Leo narrowed his eyes. He didn’t look down at their hands on the bed. He was fairly certain his palms were sweating, hand maybe shaking. Something was comfortable about it anyway. “Do you know where you’re going already? After you graduate, I mean.”

 

Cristiano gave him a slight nod. “Do you remember Hierro? That guy that came to watch us practice for, like, a month or two?”

 

“Sure. Andres said he was some sort of scout. Wouldn’t give me the details.”

 

He hesitated. “He was the scout for our region.”

 

“Scout for who?”

 

“For Real Madrid.”

 

Leo’s hand twitched. Without a shadow of doubt, he knew what he would see one day. Cristiano on every screen, his name on everyone’s lips. He would be idolized. He would be worshiped. It was what he was meant for. “Holy shit,” he said slowly. “I wish I could say I’m surprised. Do they want you now?”

 

“They do.” There was no uncertainty in his voice, and that was one thing about Cristiano that Leo would never understand. He didn’t flinch. Leo would never understand how he could show so little fear. “I’m leaving a few days after graduation.”

 

“Were you accepted into their Academy in LA?”

 

“Yes, but also to the one in Madrid. The Honors Program. I can’t turn it down.” There was a weight on his shoulders, as there always would be. Today, it was the weight of his family and their expectations-- heaviest of all were his expectations of himself. Tomorrow perhaps the souls of millions of fans around the world-- perhaps tomorrow those too would sleep on his shoulders.

 

“So you’re moving to Madrid,” Leo said with a tone of finality.

 

“Yes,” Cristiano said, like he was just now accepting it himself. “I’m moving to Madrid.”

 

Leo nodded. Things were starting to pale in comparison. What Fernando had done to him hurt like hell, but there was life beyond the chaos. What David had done to him was inexcusable, and a beast full of anger rose within him, one he couldn’t hope to conquer, and so he set it free. Free to roam and destroy as it pleased, but it stopped short when it came to Cristiano. For some reason, this boy was immune to his bitter disease. For some reason, when he spoke of moving on with his life, of taking himself to an entirely new country, Leo thought, this can work-- I can work.

 

+

 

It all started with a casual coffee date and Xabi demanding to know about their future. He wasn’t the most subtle of boys. He had learned everything from his father, a thoroughly handsome and thoroughly aggravating man who got his own way through sheer force of will. Coincidentally, this was also the way he got his money. When he wanted something, he demanded it in his calm, collected way with his hands folded on his desk, a neatly trimmed beard on his chin, a smile resting casually upon his lips. Now give it to me, his eyes said, and his hands were open to receive whatever it so happens he desired at the time.

 

But Xabi didn’t desire the same things, and he hadn’t quite perfected the calm, collected “demanding” position. He couldn’t beg well either, so he was stuck somewhere in between, half with puppy dog eyes, half with the controlled eyes of his devil father.

 

“How’s your hangover?”

 

“Good,” Xabi said, clearing his throat. He was having fruit loops with his coffee because he was in college and he could do that sort of thing. “I mean, not good exactly. I feel like I’m going to throw up and, oddly enough, fruit loops make my stomach stop making those disgusting noises, but yeah. Yeah, Good.”

 

Steven smiled his old smile. He was thinking about the previous night and Xabi’s hands, his lips, the way they had spoken. “Did I already say that I miss you?”

 

“Not in so many words,” Xabi murmured. He stirred his coffee. “But I really wish you wouldn’t.”

 

“And I wish you wouldn’t live in fucking California. But we can’t always have what we want.” He smiled to keep the conversation light, but he was burning to say more. To drop the smile, take hold of Xabi’s hand and beg him to run away. He had one of those runaway souls.

 

“No,” Xabi said, as if the idea was just now occurring to him. “I suppose we can’t. So we sit and hope for a better day to come.”

 

“Or we sit, resigned to the fact that a better day will never come.”

 

“Either way we’re sitting,” Xabi joked. “So I guess we can wait around for a pretty long time without getting tired.”

 

“It sounds like bullshit,” Steven began, pausing a moment to look at Xabi, to drink it all in before he had to leave again. They had such little time together. “But I would never get tired of waiting for you.”

 

“That does sound like bullshit,” Xabi said quickly. “Even if you are sitting down, your legs might get cramped or something. Sometimes when I sit down for too long, that happens.”

 

“Xabi,” Steven said quietly. “Look at me when I say this to you.”

 

Xabi looked up. Steven reached forward to take his hand.

 

“I would never get tired of waiting for you.” His look was long and steady. “I want nothing more than to take the money I have and run away, but you have a life here and a family here. You’re going to fucking Stanford for god’s sake. You can’t budge, but I can. So I will do the waiting. You do what you need to do. You get through school. You have as many boyfriends or girlfriends as you want. You go on and forget about me. But later, when we have more time, I want you to remember that there will always be someone waiting for you. If you’ll have him.”

 

Xabi choked back emotion. He swallowed thickly and said, “Of course I’ll have him. Of course I’ll have you.”

 

Steven looked down. It was his turn to struggle to speak. Xabi’s hands were warm and delicate, like they had always been. He had to re-learn the feel, re-memorize the fit of it against his own palm. “My flight leaves tonight. I need to get home to work out a few messes of my own. I don’t when I’ll see you again, but when I do, just know that--”

 

“I love you,” Xabi interrupted. His gaze was stern and warning, as if he expected Steven to burst out laughing. He yanked his hand away from Steven and said it again, defensively. “I love you.”

 

“I know,” Steven said simply.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“And do you love me?”

 

“I just said I’d wait, like, eight fucking years for you,” he said exasperatedly. “Of course I love you.”

 

“Eight years?”

 

“Yes. And more.”

 

“Even if I’m a pretentious fucking lawyer?”

 

“Even then.”

 

“And even if I said forks were no longer my favorite utensil?”

 

“Now that is crossing a line, young man.”

 

+

 

There were certain things that Iker did need to do alone, and after walking to the library and locating Cesc through the windows, Unai decided this was one of them. If he was going to break up with Cesc, it needed to be done now, and it needed to be done right. It reminded him of those movies where someone was getting their head hacked off with a sword. Sometimes the executioner needed a few extra swings to really lop the thing off. He didn’t want that. He wanted one clean swipe, if there had to be any damage done at all.

 

So Iker was alone after that.

 

Cesc was sitting in one of the private study rooms with the soundproof walls and the dim lighting. As soon as Iker walked in and shut the door behind him, Cesc dropped the book he was holding and pressed the button to pull the curtains shut. Almost total darkness.

 

“I went for a walk,” he said in a small voice.

 

“I know. I came to find you.”

 

“I thought you might. I didn’t want you to find me.” Cesc stood to face him.

 

“Why?” There wasn’t much space between them now. Iker could have reached out to run his fingers across Cesc’s cheek the way he used to. They were close enough to touch, to whisper, but they remained inches apart and talking without their normal intimacy.

 

“Because I know what comes next and I’m not ready for it,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll never be ready for it.”

 

In Iker’s mind, there were two versions of their relationship. There was what they once had and what they could have again; that spark, that terror of losing each other, that passion, and that love. And then there was the side of them, entirely cooled by the distance and time. Indifferent and lonely, like a blanket of ice that was covering both their heads. This was the phase they were in now, and he saw no way out. But when he reached out to touch Cesc’s hand, when just their fingers touched in the dark of the room--

 

There was no way out. He dropped his hand, and Cesc looked wounded.

 

“You have a lifetime of relationships ahead of you,” he said. “If that helps.”

 

“It doesn’t. I don’t care about a lifetime of relationships right now. I care about this one.”

 

There was a poorly concealed pain in Iker’s eyes. “Don’t,” he said gently. “Please don’t. You know as well as I do that some part of this is long dead.”

 

Cesc moved closer, and there was a wicked desperation to his shakiness. He was coming so close Iker could feel his breath. There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then they were moving forward together, kissing as they hadn’t kissed in so long. Cesc wound his fingers in Iker’s hair, and it was all heat and passion and desperation.

 

When they pulled apart, Iker almost pushed him away, remembering his brother. But then. Cesc had this way of looking at him.

 

“You know we’re finished.”

 

“I know.” He licked his lips anyway.

 

Sick with defeat, Iker pressed forward.

 

It was all a mess after that, and he regretted every bit of it. He felt like a different person. Those were not his fingers unbuttoning Cesc’s pants. Those were not his eyes glaring down at the other boy. This was not them. It was two strangers who tore at each other with animalistic ease. They were two beasts in disguise, fucking against a table, holding their hands over their mouths to cover the sound.

 

Cesc groaned, and his chin hit the table. Iker didn’t stop. He couldn’t look in his eyes anyway. Knowing what he was doing and knowing what he had done, he felt a darkness growing in the pit of his stomach.

 

He finished as quickly as he could, fumbling with the condom and tossing it away in the library trash can. He was quiet and serious and so pissed at himself he could hardly speak. Cesc was more casual. He pulled up his pants, still breathing hard. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed loudly.

 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Iker said. The silence was deafening.

 

Cesc’s chin was bloody from where it slammed against the table. He grinned and a thin line of blood seeped forth. “You remember how we were before? Breaking everything in an effort to make sense of ourselves?”

 

“Not me. You. I broke everything in an effort to make sense of you. I found it, and I lost it, and I can’t fumble in the dark anymore.” Iker bit the inside of his cheek. He thought back to what he had told Unai outside. About the distance. God. If you could feel the distance.

 

Cesc sat down again, taking the armchair in the corner. He looked small and lonely again without the wide, fake grin. “I can’t plead with you anymore. I can’t fucking pretend anymore. I’ve been miserable without you, and I’m going to be miserable without you again.”

 

He stood up again, frantic, moving towards Iker again, brows furrowed and angry. His hands were balled into fists. Iker stepped forward to meet him, saying it again quickly and quietly that they were finished. Finished. Cesc nodded, and they kissed again, scrambling like animals in the dark.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual: 
> 
> sorry about my normal two things: 1.) late update and 2.) shitty writing and/or poor editing. I did not edit this. I maybe read it over once and corrected super awkward wording, but I mostly just left it as-is. 
> 
> currently working on a greek mythology/the song of achilles inspired fic right now that I'm going to submit to the futbal mini-bang thing! I'll post it on here once it's posted on their archive thingy. Anyway, that's what's been eating up most of my time. also summer is ending. request fics if you want, and I'm going to be answering the rest of the comments soon. I swear I'll get to them all eventually.


	8. Cough Syrup (part 1.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an email and a letter I thought weren't really necessary for the last part but that you might like to read over anyway

To: r.kaka22@gmail.com

From: cristiano.ronaldo@gmail.com

Subject: I know no one emails anymore but....

 

it's so lame to email, but I wanted to properly apologize for everything that happened between us and seeing as you seem to have blocked my number and deleted me on Skype, I had to resort to traveling back in time to 2003 to use this archaic form of communication.

 

Jokes aside, I realize that you blocking me in every possible way is probably your idea of a subtle hint, and I should take it. And I will take it. Ignore this message if you want to or if you need to. I will understand. Please don't forget that more than anything, I want you to be happy. These are things I can't say out loud. If I were a better person-- a braver person-- I would have said these things to you a long time ago. I did say them, just silently, and you can't be blamed for not hearing.

 

You'll be relieved to hear that in some ways I have moved on. You will always have a hold on me because you are you and I am me, and that's just the way I gravitate, always in your direction. But things are different now. I am so, so sorry that I hurt you the way that I did and then just walked away.

  
I don't expect you to forgive me or understand why I sent this. I know I have no right, but in some ways you have the right to see that I am truly sorry and truly finished hurting you. If you ever need anything, I will run to you. 

 

+ 

 

The first of a seven page letter. Opened a week ago, sitting in his duffel bag.

 

To Mr. Cristiano Ronaldo,

It is our great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into the Real Madrid Club Football Academy of the United States of America. After corresponding with our Pennsylvania state admissions representative, Mr. Fernando Hierro, the Real Madrid family is pleased to offer you the opportunity to transfer your admission from the American academy base in Los Angeles, California to our headquarters in Madrid, Spain. The scholarship and financial aid offered by the American outlet RMCFA will transfer over should you decide to accept.

 

It is our duty to remind you that should you accept, there is no guarantee that you will be chosen from the youth academy to play for Real Madrid at the senior level; however, we show our absolute faith in you by hand-picking you from the thousands admitted to our Los Angeles academy. Of those thousands, seven talents including yourself have been awarded the additional honor of participating in the more rigorous Honors program only offered in Madrid.

 

As a student at the Real Madrid Club Football Academy of Spain, you will take Math, Science, English, and Philosophy classes alongside inspiring electives that will further your education as you participate in the most prestigious athletic program in the world.

 

 


	9. Things As They Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What poll did you put up now?" 
> 
> "Oh, it's called 'Will They or Won't They: Hastings' Power Couple?' And the question is 'Are Sergio Ramos and Cristiano Ronaldo Back At It?'" He thumbed through his updates. "But I'm going to have to put a new one up: 'Beauty and the Beast: Will Cristiano and Unknown Chess Club Kid fuck this week or next week?'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: the timeline would mean that Cesc is now a junior and, since his birthday is in May, 16. Making his and Iker's relationship an underage thing, so if that bothers you, warning.

Iker thinks he’s the kind of boy it kills you not to touch. If you fuck him, you destroy him, and if you don’t fuck him, you die. He thinks it’s just a simple test of morals. The simplest question, Are You Good? And not in that innocent-as-snow, purity type garbage, but the broken down, beaten up, trodden on kind of goodness that stares up from its place in the mud and says Have Another Go. You Didn’t Aim So Well The First Time.

 

Cesc was sitting upright in the backseat with his head thrown back. Throat exposed, legs spread, pants unzipped and pulled halfway down. Iker can see the map of his morals right there in the red marks on Cesc’s thighs.

 

The other boy began to stir, and Iker turned away. He put his hands on the wheel. “Ready,” he said. “To go?” It didn’t come out as a question or even remotely polite. But. To say and to mean. It was the kind of voice where his heart was in his throat, but you wouldn’t know it just by listening.

 

Cesc shrugged and bucked his hips once to pull his pants up. He leant back against the seat, didn’t move to return to the passenger side.

 

Iker knew him. Knew he was not ready and that he would not be ready. He was paralyzed by solitude. That’s just how Cesc existed-- if he didn’t find someone to fill a space between his legs, he would be forced to acknowledge the empty space somewhere else inside him. Cesc did not like empty space. He was so quick to fill Iker’s absence with Unai.

 

“I hate what love is,” he said before the car started. “I hate what we make it out to be.”

 

“And you think those are two completely different concepts? What love is and what we make it out to be?”

 

He finally made eye contact with Iker in the mirror. “They don’t even belong to the same world of ideas.”

 

A muscle jumped in Iker's jaw. He was quiet until Cesc looked away.

 

"Get in the front," he said quietly.

 

For a second, he thought Cesc would resist. Almost hoped that he would. He couldn't tell if it made him more or less of a monster when something opposed him. Was it worse, he wondered, to kick a wounded animal? Or to see its pride and try to burn the life out of something as beautiful as Resistance?

 

"Now," he said, and Cesc kicked the door open.

 

"I'm walking."

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Iker replied coolly. "Get in the front seat and shut the door."

 

He opened his mouth to object, but their eyes met in the mirror again, and he shut it with a snap of his teeth. Teeth grinding, stomach churning, he slipped into the passenger seat and hated himself harder than ever.

 

It was their last day together. Iker dropped his three visitors off at the station when he and Cesc had returned from their "trip to the grocery store." The car ride was heavy, the silence only broken when Sergio pointed out the window at something random and tried to make a stupid comment to break the ice. He got half a smirk from Unai, a glare from Iker, and dead eyes from Cesc. None of them said goodbye in so many words.

 

Iker embraced his brother; Sergio practically tackled the older boy in an attempt to steal his own hug. Cesc and Iker exchanged one long look that felt meaningless later. No one but Unai looked over his shoulder at what he was leaving behind.

+

 

Fernando was slowly and methodically working his way through his Wednesday night homework in the library when Juan sat down across from him.

 

"Hey," he said. "Do you know what you're doing after the game Friday?"

 

"Nope. I was planning on nothing actually."

 

"Oh." Juan scratched his chin with his pencil. "See, I was thinking you could come to the game with me-- Us. Llorente and Muniain are coming too."

 

Fernando looked up from his homework to give him a long, hard critical examination. "Why would I want to go watch Sergio play."

 

"I mean, it's not... Just sergio."

 

"Right, Cristiano is playing too."

 

"Yes," Juan exclaimed, desperate for anything. "Wait. No. No, that's not--" He sighed into his hands. "You're very difficult."

 

"I'm difficult to be friends with? That's a nice thing to say." He didn't mean to snap at Juan. He was just so not having Monday.

 

"No," Juan groaned. "I'm trying to see if you want to..." He struggled with the words. "Enjoy yourself or something. I know you've been kind of down recently, and I think it's my duty as a friend to make you come out with us."

 

Fernando rolled his eyes at his homework. "Fine." Sergio would be distracted by the game, and Fernando would be distracted by his friends. Neither one of them would acknowledge the existence of the other.

 

Plus it would shut Juan up and Sergio would see that he had moved on. Good enough.

 

"Fine?" Juan echoed cautiously.

 

"Fine," fernando repeated, gritting his teeth. "Then I will go to the match with you, and we will watch them play, and then you were saying about afterwards?"

 

"Right," Juan said, distracted by the way Fernando was speaking, by the way his lips were moving. "I was thinking we could go back to my room and watch a movie or something."

 

"We can study together," Fernando said briefly. "Assuming I don't kill you before then."

 

Juan smiled.

 

"That's your cue to leave me alone."

 

"I'm going, I'm going," he said cheerfully, holding his hands up, feigning innocence.

 

+

 

Cristiano was texting Iker about the older boy's most recent emotional breakdown-- "I don't know. I feel like shit. I don't know.-- when there was a hesitant knock on the door. Cristiano frowned, sent a goodnight message to answer Iker's, and crossed the room.

 

"Who's there?" Fabio called from the bathroom.

 

"Dunno," Cristiano answered, and he waited for the the shower to start, just in case Leo had decided to stop ignoring him.

 

"Okay," Fabio said, oblivious to Cristiano's uncertainty. He started the shower, and the other boy took a deep breath before approaching the door.

 

He flung it open to reveal not a short boy badly in need of a haircut but a tall one in workout gear with a tattoo behind his ear. Sergio.

 

"Hey," Cristiano said, thrown off. "Uh." He checked down the hallway. Surely Leo would have stopped by. Surely they couldn't keep acting like they hadn't had that conversation over break.

 

"Hey." He just stood there swaying in the doorway for a second before crossing his arms over his chest and flashing Cristiano his blinding albeit over-exaggerated smile. "So I spent the break with Iker, Cesc, and Unai."

 

"Yeah, I was just talking to Iker about it, and the break-up seems pretty fucked up."

 

"Yeah," he agreed, keeping his voice light. The plan was to stray from serious topics and accidentally stumble into a happier conversation. Naturally, their old friendship would just reappear, no trouble. "But what did you do over break?"

 

"Spent it with Xabi, met up with David and, surprisingly, Leo." He checked his phone again. "But. Apparently we're not speaking."

 

Sergio felt the familiar twinge of jealousy. It was the feeling he probably most closely associated with the friends-with-benefits era. Those were the days; that was the golden period of self-hatred and silences.

 

"You guys good friends or something now?"

 

"Apparently not." He shoved the phone back in his pocket with a hint of annoyance. "But anyway."

 

"So," Sergio began to fill the silence, not thinking that there would be a chance he would have to continue after that first dive into rekindling things.

 

Cristiano raised his eyebrows, and Sergio tried again.

 

"I finished my homework," he offered. A brief pause. "And I thought maybe we could go TP the, uh, the entire campus?"

 

Fabio emerged from the shower dripping water across the floor. He noticed Sergio and briefly lifted his hand in greeting. "Cris, you going out?"

 

He hesitated for a moment longer, looking nowhere but directly at Sergio like they were meeting again for the very first time.

 

"Yeah."

 

+

 

"You started the Common App?"

 

Sergio shrugged briefly. "You know, sort of. It's mostly done, but my essay is shit."

 

"I'm sure it's not that bad."

 

"No, Iker said it was shit."

 

"Oh." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Then it probably is pretty shit."

 

"What about you?" And there it was, the question he was trying to avoid, hanging in the dark like a noose. He almost dropped the duffel bag of toilet paper they were carting around between them.

 

"I finished the app and submitted it early."

 

"And?"

 

He chose his words carefully, released them slowly. "I'm going to Madrid."

 

Sergio stopped walking abruptly, and Cristiano drew level with him, struggling to balance the duffel bag between them. He focused on the buckle on the side, flicked it a few times before finally looking up to see an unreadable expression haunting Sergio's features. Partly proud, partly betrayed; halfway to smiling and halfway to tears-- it was all so completely him.

 

"You got in then," he said finally, shifting the weight of the bag to his other hand. "Like we all knew you would."

 

"Yeah. I got in."

 

There was a long silence in which they both recalled the first time they met, the first time they smiled at each other, the first time they understood what best friend meant, the first time they lost sight of that clear-cut definition in the passion of a kiss.

 

"I'm proud of you," Sergio said finally. His hand twitched against the side of the bag. "I'm proud of you, and I'm sorry that everything happened the way that it did. I wish I could go back and fix it before you leave for good."

 

"You are," Cristiano told him, and he meant it.

 

Sergio shook his head, tugged the bag, and they kept walking towards the trees.

 

"I just wish we hadn't wasted so much time this year. Fighting and avoiding each other and not understanding anything. We wasted so much time."

 

"Do you ever get the feeling that all you've done for the past four years is waste time?"

 

"Yeah. At least you're headed to something bigger and better."

 

They dumped the bag on the ground, and Sergio grabbed a roll. He stood beneath the trees for a moment, surveying the naked branches.

 

"You're headed for something too," Cristiano said. "I know you are."

 

"We'll see," he said with a shrug. "A small academy in Sevilla was interested for awhile. If they accept me, at least we'd both be in Spain. But there was someone from London, and another from LA. Not nearly as many offers from scouts as you got, but I got my fair share."

 

He swung his foot loosely at a branch on the ground. "And my parents want me to stay in the States, so that complicates things. I don't know. If I'm not going to make it as a footballer, what am I going to make it as?"

 

Cristiano bent down to hide his eyes. He picked up a toilet paper roll and focused on it for a moment, carefully controlling himself, before turning back to Sergio with comforting words: "You will find something. You're good at film;  you're an amazing singer; you're actually not a bad actor even though I make fun of you all the time. You will find a place, but I don't think football will fail you. It never has."

 

"But it has never loved me as it has loved you."

 

"Be comforted by that then. Because nothing and no one has ever loved me as football does.”

 

I did, Sergio wanted to tell him-- I do. But there was a time and place for silly admissions of love, and the middle of the night when they were talking about the future was not one of them. Their relationship had no place in the time that had not yet occurred.

 

Sergio looked away. He gestured to the trees with a jerky movement. "Ready?"

 

\+  

 

It was early in the morning, and the trees were covered in toilet paper. Cesc jogged past them, thinking that maybe Marcelo and his group were at it again. Bits of toilet paper had fallen to the ground and stuck to his shoes. He continued down the same path, trying to kick it off as he went. Shaded and dark by the mass of paper covering every branch, it was eerie.

 

Halfway down the path, he heard something behind him, turned, and ran straight into Cristiano. "Jesus," he yelled, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Fucking Christ."

 

"No," Cristiano said smoothly, pulling out his headphones. "It's just me. I'm Cristiano. I think we've met."

 

"Ha ha, asshole." Cesc fanned his face. "I think you actually just gave me a heart condition."

 

"I used to have a heart condition," the other boy said, breathing hard. He took a swig from his water bottle. "Had to have surgery freshman year."

 

Cesc blinked. "Why would you tell me that."

 

Cristiano shrugged. "Seemed like a good time."

 

Cesc chewed his lip for a second. "You know, you're way way stranger than people know."

 

"Yeah." He gestured to the path, and they started up again together. "So, you talked to Leo?"

 

"No, why would I have talked to Leo?"

 

"Dunno. You guys seemed to get along."

 

Cesc shrugged. "I guess. That kid doesn't really like anyone though. I dunno. He and Fernando got along for awhile and then.... Well, you know." He gave Cristiano a sorry-I-brought-that-up look.

 

"Yeah. I know."

 

"Why are you asking anyway? You going to sock him in the face again?"

 

"Just curious."

 

Cesc slowed to a walk, and Cristiano passed him the water bottle. He took a swig.

 

"Pretty weird thing to just ask. Especially considering you two are, like, eternal rivals and all."

 

Cristiano squirmed uncomfortably. "We're not eternal rivals. We're just not..."

 

"Friends?"

 

"Guess not." He accepted the water bottle and tucked it under his arm. "So how are you holding up anyway?"

 

"What, since the break-up? Oh, fantastic. I just love heart-shattering loneliness and intense self-loathing." He flashed the other boy a sarcastic smile.

 

"Oh, good. Yeah, that sounds nice."

 

Cesc almost tripped over a branch, caught himself on Cristiano's arm without any acknowledgement of his imbalance, and kept walking. Cristiano could see, easily, what Iker had seen before him.

 

"I'm guessing you talked to him?" he asked, as if nothing had happened.

 

"To Iker?" Momentarily distracted, he glanced at the spot on his arm where Cesc's fingers had pressed. "Yeah, we talked."

 

"About me?"

 

"Yes, and about him."

 

Cesc looked at the road ahead. He looked a little confused and a little lost, and, in that moment, it was hard to imagine him any other way. His confusion, his lost nature, his inability to see the real impact he had on people-- it was all part of who he was in his bones.

 

"I'd ask how he is, but I don't care." He set his jaw firmly.

 

When Iker said he didn't care, Cristiano almost bought it. With Cesc though-- God. There was never a chance.

 

"I'd tell you, but I don't think you want to hear about his guilt."

 

"I don't," Cesc answered in an oddly strangled tone. "Did you come out here because Iker told you to say all that? What, does he want to keep his bases covered in case he ever needs a good fuck again?"

 

Cristiano made a face and sipped his water, took his time in answering. "You honestly think I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning on a school day to pretend to accidentally run into you just so that I could deliver some message from your ex-boyfriend?"

 

Cesc glared at him from the corner of his eye. "I know you two were best friends."

 

"Being best friends with someone doesn't mean excusing their behavior. He never excused mine, and he doesn't expect me to excuse his."

 

Cesc bit his lip. Remembered Iker biting his shoulder. How could he be sorry for something like that. How could he ever want something like that.

 

"So you feel sorry for me."

 

"Jesus. Stop acting like I have an ulterior motive, alright?" He took another frustrated gulp of water and some dribbled down his chin. "I like running in the morning and I don't entirely hate your company. Can we just be running partners and quit whatever this interrogation is?"

 

Cesc hesitated. "Fine." He started to jog again, and Cristiano kept pace. "So who TPed the campus anyway?"

 

"Oh that was me and Sergio."

 

"Oh," Cesc said. "Yeah, that makes sense."

 

+

 

Crustyanus logged on 6:30 am

crustyanus: is there a reason you're ignoring me?

messiah logged off 6:32 am

messiah logged on 6:35 am

messiah: is there a reason you're asking Cesc fabregas about me

crustyanus: God that kid has a big mouth

messiah: yeah.

messiah: So?

crustyanus: I was asking him bc you were ignoring me. Obviously.

messiah: are you really that self-centered that you think someone not speaking to you for a few days is them purposely ignoring you

crustyanus: yes. You know this about me.

messiah: look, there's reality and then there's you. I'm not stupid enough to think that we could come back to this place and be friends.

crustyanus: k well you are stupid enough to think that the conversation we had and the time we spent together was bullshit

messiah: you can hardly call it stupidity when you look at us.

crustyanus: what, eternal rivals and all?

messiah: yeah

crustyanus: wow

crustyanus logged off 6:47 am

 

+

 

It was breakfast that morning and people were staring. It had been a long time since two thirds of their Holy Trinity had sat together, yet there they were sharing notes for Government as if nothing had happened.

 

"Pretty sure representative democracy sounds like a pile of shit," Sergio said, scanning the lesson. "What am I supposed to get from this lesson anyway? That rich white men make all the decisions and the United States is a bureaucracy?"

 

"It's pluralistic," Gonzalo corrected, peering around Cristiano's shoulder cheerfully. "My notes say pluralistic."

 

"What?" Sergio looked back down at the notes he had taken, nearly regretting spending all night throwing toilet paper on the trees instead of actually doing his Gov homework like he'd claimed. “Are you sure you don’t mean patriarchy?”

 

"Yeah, no. Pluralistic," Gonzalo said, sounding it out for him slowly. He pushed his paper forward. "I don't, like, know the exact reasoning because I didn't, like, study, but I think it's because we all get a say in everything."

 

Cristiano snorted over his oatmeal. "That's naive."

 

Gonzalo, eternally a patriotic pre-teen when it came to politics, looked at him open-mouthed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

Cristiano's eyes lit up as he felt a debate coming. But before he could begin, his eyes slid over to a figure walking into the dining hall alone, head down in an attempt to remain inconspicuous.

 

Fabio smacked him from the other side. "What's up with you?"

 

"Yeah," Gonzalo continued, outraged. "What is up with you?"

 

Sergio rolled his eyes. "Guys, I've already hated Cris for like the past year and a half. You're so behind. That's, like, last season's look."

 

Cristiano's lips lifted in recognition, but his eyes remained on the boy sitting at a corner table alone. "Yeah," he said, and he nudged Sergio's foot under the table to make up for his lack of enthusiasm.

 

Gonzalo went back to his notes, combing over everything. Where was the part that said he was naive? Sergio, however, thrust aside the notes and turned himself fully around in his seat to locate the Distraction.

 

He turned back to Cristiano with a wild smirk. It was partly "I'm going to tease the shit out of you" and partly "no, look at me instead. I'm pretty. Look at me." He snapped his fingers in front of Cristiano's eyes.

 

"What the hell are you staring at Broken Collarbone for?"

 

"It was his cheekbone. And it was fractured."

 

"Really?" Karim said from the end of the table. "I heard it was a hairline fracture and it was his jawbone."

 

Sergio leaned forward conspiratorially. "Say you cannot confirm or deny anything. He runs a gossip blog. Takes right after his father."

 

"What?" Cristiano was still distracted. "What? Who? Who takes after their dad?"

 

"Karim."

 

"Who's his dad?"

 

"Benzema," Sergio said with wide eyes. "Like, Perez Hilton but without the harassment."

 

"So not like Perez Hilton at all," Fabio clarified. He dipped his finger in Gonzalo's plate in search of syrup only to be slapped away immediately.

 

Gonzalo glared at Fabio. "Do not get your grubby hands near my syrup. If you spill one drop of that on my sweatshirt, my dad is going to kill me. Do you know how much club t-shirts cost, hm? Hm? Do you, Fabio? $127.50. Which is, like, not that bad, but still."

 

"Dude," Fabio said, choking back laughter, "No club sweatshirt costs $127.50. My Brit-Lovin club sweatshirt cost me $27."

 

"I'm sorry, is no one going to tell Fabio that he's not actually British?"

 

"Karim Benzema," Sergio said, leaning over to smack his shoulder appreciatively. "Asking the real questions.

 

Gonzalo clutched his Young Republicans t-shirt protectively. "How dare you." He glared at each of them, one by one.

 

"How dare you belong to that club," Fabio returned with a shrug. "I'm surprised they let you in anyway. I heard they have a major No Homo rule."

 

Gonzalo turned bright pink. "I might be the only gay one in there, but they don't treat me any differently. We just don't talk about it. And you know what, they even offered me a ride to the Pro-Life March, so I think they're being pretty damn respectful of my choices."

 

"That is a riot," said Fabio. "You are just a riot. I'm glad they're being respectful of your choices while you guys go on a march literally with the sole intention of taking away someone's choices. Amazing. Just, I honestly could not have scripted that better. I love you."

 

"You know what, next time you're so drunk that you're puking into a toilet, I'm not going to answer your mom's text and tell her that you're not currently puking in a toilet. I'm going to answer her text and tell her that you are currently puking in a toilet."

 

Fabio rolled his eyes and, daringly, dipped his finger in Gonzalo's plate. "Well, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to tell Marcelo that you want to join the Young Democrats club, and I'm going to tell Mr. Beckham that you said you wanted to join my Feminism Club."

 

Gonzalo let out a strangled yell, attracting the attention of two tables nearby. "I hate you and your radical clubs. I HATE you, Fabio. SO MUCH."

 

"I'm sorry equality is too much for your little brain to handle, Gonzalo. I'm sorry I said the F-word. GOD FORBID I say Feminist in front of you. Me and my radical, radical ways. You can handle anything but total equality, right?"

 

"You," Gonzalo said, leaning forward to take away his plate, "Disgust me." And he walked away to clean his dish.

 

"I love you," Cristiano said fondly in Fabio's direction. He watched the table in the corner. "That happens once a week, and I've never gotten tired of it, not ever.

 

Fabio snorted. "If he thinks I'm disgusting now, what do you think he's going to say when I tell him I'm considering just wearing dresses all the time?"

 

Cristiano shrugged, and Sergio raised his eyebrows. "He'll honestly probably just be mad that you're not in his super special asshole club. Gonzalo isn't even a shitty person. He's just had it all drilled into his brain for as long as he's been alive. That's what happens when your dad's a --"

 

"Republican?" Fabio offered.

 

"Well, I was going to say politician."

 

"Right. That too." Fabio went back to his oatmeal. "Anyway, once I get out of this place I can do whatever I want."

 

"Like wear dresses?" Sergio offered, still somewhat in need of an explanation.

 

He shrugged happily. "What do you think, Cris? You think it's an okay idea?"

 

Cristiano sighed as he wrenched his gaze away from Leo. He surveyed Fabio's body carefully. "I really don't think green would be very flattering. White would be nice. Like with a cute v-neck or something."

 

Fabio grinned harder, and Sergio joined in now. "Is anything ever going to phase you? Or are you just going to let me get weirder and weirder and be okay with it."

 

"Well, when you start getting weird, I'll let you know. Like if you ever start rocking florals in the middle of winter, I'm going to have to slap you across the face. Florals in winter. Now that is weird."

 

"But a guy wearing a dress?" Fabio asked.

 

"Nothing weird about it," he said, and he let his arm rest around Fabio's shoulders.

 

"At least it’s more shocking than that insane crush you've got on Leo," Fabio said with a snort. "Like, I saw that coming from a mile away."

 

Sergio's eyes went wide for a moment, and then he just sort of. The tension left his body, and he thought that maybe for a second he understood what it meant to let go of the person, despite loving them.

 

Cristiano choked on his water and spent the next minute and a half spluttering like a fish out of water. "You-- I. That is, just-- he's a -- that is absolutely-- do not even. What I mean to say is, ah, he is-- just disgusting facewise and-- he's short. He's very short."

 

"Disgusting facewise," Fabio repeated, mocking him. "Yeah, you deny it all you want, but you'd probably take it in the ass."

 

"According to my statistics," Karim said, sliding over into Gonzalo's place with a full plate of bacon. He adjusted his glasses. "That is not saying a lot."

 

"Did Karim just call you a slut?" Sergio snorted.

 

"No," Fabio said, waving him off. He turned to Cristiano and poked him on the cheek. "Karim's _statistics_ just called you a slut."

 

Karim pulled out his phone, fiddled with it for a moment, and then coughed once to clear his throat. "Right, so according to a poll done at the all-girls school, you got 70% of the 'If He Liked Pussy' votes."

 

"Hey," Sergio said, affronted.

 

"Sergio, you voted on that poll. I can tell who voted. You were logged in."

 

"I like those polls, alright?” He said defensively. “But, like, I wouldn't have voted for him if I knew he was getting 70% of the votes."

 

"If it makes you feel better, you beat the others by a landslide."

 

Sergio grinned, placated. "Never been so happy to get second. What poll did you put up now?"

 

"Oh, it's called 'Will They or Won't They: Hastings' Power Couple?' And the question is 'Are Sergio Ramos and Cristiano Ronaldo Back At It?'" He thumbed through his updates. "But I'm going to have to put a new one up: 'Beauty and the Beast: Will Cristiano and Unknown Chess Club Kid fuck this week or next week?'"

 

"Okay, I'm a little offended that I'm no longer part of the main poll, but whatever. Journalism hurts." Sergio shut his Gov book and stood up. "Alright, time for me to go beg Beckham to let me skip this English quiz."

 

"Hey, maybe if you offer your ass, he'll just give you the A," Karim said, waggling his eyebrows.

 

"More like the D," Fabio cut in with a wink. "Just ask Iker."

 

Cristiano groaned and put his head down on the table. "You're all too much for me to handle this morning. It makes me want to eat all your oatmeal and then vomit it all over you."

 

"It's called a crush, honey," Fabio said, standing up. "And while I would love to help you get over Unknown Chess Club Kid, I really do have to go write my paper. It's due in twenty minutes."

 

"Plenty of time," Karim said encouragingly, waving to Sergio and Fabio as they left together.

 

Cristiano's head was still down on the table.

 

Karim poked his neck. "Do you think I can get a quote for my next article?"

 

"Sure."

 

“Really?”

 

"Yeah, write this down: Fuck. Off."

 

+

 

Leo was on his study block when he first heard the news. There was a buzzing behind him which turned out to the rapidfire exchange of two freshmen. They were staring at his back, but that was nothing new. When people weren't completely ignoring him, they were talking about what a loner he was. Which was fine. Just, also not fine at all.

 

"...dating Cristiano."

 

"He is not. Check Karim's blog. It says Leo...not.... Can't believe you actually got that wrong. Honestly... Don't check Karim's blog enough."

 

Leo stiffened but he resisted the urge to turn around. He'd heard about Karim's blog and apparently his dad was some big time journalist-blogger who made money off of ruining people's lives. Karim was hot on his heels with that one. Only his blog was private meaning only people with the password could get in, and he wasn't paid. So he just did to feel exclusive.

 

After several minutes of listening to the freshmen awkwardly trying to shift their conversation back to schoolwork, Leo flipped his phone over and typed in Karim's blog. He was ashamed to say he still had the password memorized.

 

And there it was. Unknown Chess Club Kid. Fuck.

 

+

 

The door slammed shut inches from his fingers. "What the fuck--" He turned to see who had joined him in the empty classroom so rudely. Like, damn, we both want to be early, but there's no point in taking someone's fingers off.

 

"I'm not even IN the CHESS CLUB," he yelled, throwing his phone at Cristiano. "Unknown Chess Club Kid being Courted by Cristiano??? Impressive alliteration, but BULLSHIT STORY. Is this your way of getting back at me? Writing a story for Karim to publish just so people can see what a joke I am? Just so people can say 'Why would someone like Cristiano ever fall for someone like him?' Is that seriously what gets you off?"

 

"Are you fucking joking?" He almost winced at how defensive the sound of his own voice was. "I don't write for Karim, Leo."

 

"Yeah? Then how did he get the idea for this story?"

 

Cristiano shut his eyes for a moment. "Because he overheard--"

 

"You making fun of me?"

 

"Shut up for a second?" He held Leo's gaze firmly until the other boy nodded slightly. "He overheard me admitting..."

 

Cristiano trailed off, and Leo couldn't resist filling the silence. "Admitting what."

 

He was silent for awhile longer and then, "How I felt about you. Feel. How I feel about you."

 

Leo was frozen to his spot. Someone was bound to walk in at any second. They were five minute early to class, and they'd already wasted three arguing. Someone was going to--

 

"And how do you feel about me?"

 

There was a brief moment of hesitation, a flicker of a choice to be made in Cristiano's eyes, and then he looked down at his hands. "If you don't leave, I'm going to kiss you."

 

His breath hitched. "And what if that's what I want?"

 

"I can't," he said. "You can't. You're hardly over Villa. I have a new crush every 0.25 seconds. I'm leaving for Spain in a few short months. None of it adds up to.." He gestured to the space between them. "To this."

 

Leo nodded, jaw tense. His chest felt tight. "No, yeah. It makes sense." He looked away. "So what are you going to do? Go back to Sergio? Find Ricky? Or I hear there's someone on the Diving Team who wants you. Maybe them?"

 

"Maybe," he said, weighing his options. "But the thing is, Sergio and I are too much to be just friends and too little to be in a relationship. Ricardo was important to me, and I would still do anything for him, but what we had is finished."

 

"So someone new."

 

"Perhaps."

 

"Just not me."

 

"Yes," Cristiano said quietly. "Just not you."

 

The door opened, and students filtered in. "Hey," someone shouted, pointing, "Beauty and the Unknown Chess Club Kid."

 

That just about set Leo off, so he turned back around, eyes brutally cold. "You know what," he spat, "You're the one who was texting me and whining about me ignoring you, and now suddenly it can't possibly be me, and it can't possibly be Sergio, and your ex-boyfriend wasn't good enough either. Maybe if you spent less time being the shallow, arrogant bastard that you pretend to be and more time showing people what a--" he faltered. "-- what a wonderful person you are, you might actually find someone who is enough."

 

The rest of the class was there now, hovering on the side of the classroom, not even daring to whisper to one another. They were too caught up in the drama playing out before their eyes.

 

Cristiano didn't say anything. There were too many people around. And Leo. There were too many people, and there was Leo.

 

"There's reality," he said, "And then there's you."

 

"Aw," someone cooed in the corner. "Beauty gettin' sweet."

 

Leo's jaw went slack, and he looked like he might vomit or burst into tears or run forward and kiss the other boy. Possibly an uncomfortable combination of all three.

 

Finally he turned around and walked towards the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "And you know what?" He turned to the group of students huddled in the corner to watch. "I'm not in the fucking chess club. FUCK CHESS, OKAY?"

 

The door slammed, and Cristiano took his seat. Shut his eyes.

 

+

 

“Heads up, Sergio!” Isco yelled as he threw his towel across the locker room. Everyone was in good spirits after the win, so him standing completely naked and dancing around got even more of a cheer than usual.

 

Sergio paled and let the towel hit him clean in the face. “What,” he said distantly as it hung over his face. “What’s going on.”

 

Cristiano stifled a laugh and pulled it off the other boy. “God. You’re so weak when it comes to that boy.”

 

“I know,” he said regretfully. “I know. I know. I know. What are you doing now anyway?”

 

“Dunno. I don’t really feel like the after-party seeing as everyone is talking about my blow-up with Leo and it’s plastered all over Karim’s blog.”

 

“Wouldn’t that normally be your main reason to go?”

 

He thought about it for a second. He normally liked the attention, liked the way people looked at him like he was crazy and glorious, like he was shining so hard they couldn’t look away. But everything seemed dull all of a sudden. He felt like he had shone too bright for too long and this was the universe’s way of telling him to kill his ego. Or his darlings. Either way, something had to go. He could not keep both his ego and the people he cared about.

 

“I guess,” he said finally. “I just sort of feel like shit.”

 

“You just scored four goals in one game,” Andres teased quietly from the corner. “Get some real problems, Ronaldo.”

 

Sergio smacked his shoulder. “Come on,” he said seriously. “I think having some fun would be good for you. And, if it makes you happy, I promise you and I will walk around a little instead of spending the whole time at the party.”

 

“Walking around with a drunk Sergio Ramos?” Cristiano folded his towel and zipped his duffel bag, checking three times for his shoes before he pulled the strap over his shoulder. “No thanks. I don’t feel like spending half an hour guiding you across an eight foot wide path.”

 

“That happened once,” Sergio said hurriedly, moving to block his exit. “Please?” He looked at him. “Cris, please.” He lowered his voice. “Look, I miss you. I was hoping we could celebrate and talk and--”

 

“Fuck?” Gonzalo offered from the other side. “Are you planning on fucking later because if I send information in to Karim, he’ll buy me ice cream. And, like, I’m pissed at him for making fun of Republican Club, but, like, I love ice cream.”

 

Sergio whirled around. “If I buy you ice cream, will you shut the fuck up?”

 

“No, actually,” Isco said, stepping into his pants. “If you’ve ever eaten ice cream with him, you know that his moans are absolutely pornographic. When he eats ice cream, it’s, like, Level Seven moaning. I call it Orgasmic Fisting.”

 

“I do NOT fist myself,” Gonzalo shouted, standing up to pull Isco’s pants down. “There,” he said, triumphantly. “How do you feel now?”

 

“I mean, my pants were halfway down already, so you didn’t really embarrass me, but.”

 

“Don’t make me do it again,” he threatened.

 

“My pants are literally around my ankles. How are you going to pull my pants down if my pants are already pulled down?”

 

Sergio turned back to Cristiano. “I just turned away from a fully naked Isco Alarcon to ask you this question: Will you please spend tonight with me?”

 

Cristiano hesitated. “Fine,” he said. “But only because you gave up a full two minutes of staring at his dick for me.”

 

+

 

To: iker.casillas@gmail.com

From: david.beckham@hastings.edu

Subject: Lolita

 

Iker,

Bad time for me to show up again, I’m sure, but there’s something you should know about your boy.

 

To: david.beckham@hastings.edu

From: iker.casillas@gmail.com

Subject: RE: Lolita

 

Should you really be emailing me from your school account

 

To: iker.casillas@gmail.com

From: david.beckham@hastings.edu

Subject: RE: Lolita

 

It’s the only one Victoria doesn’t check.

 

To: david.beckham@hastings.edu

From: iker.casillas@gmail.com

Subject: RE: Lolita  

 

What’s going on with Cesc

 

To: iker.casillas@gmail.com

From: david.beckham@hastings.edu

Subject: RE: Lolita

 

I’ll send it to you.

 

To: iker.casillas@gmail.com

From: david.beckham@hastings.edu

Subject: You need to see this

 

The assignment was to write about their break. Here’s what he submitted.

File: stupid_journal_response.docx

 

“So on Wednesday I was sitting in the backseat of my ex-boyfriend’s car with my pants around my ankles. Well I guess I wasn’t really sitting until later because he was fucking me, so I mean, you can work the positioning out in your head, but. Anyway, he was fucking me, and it was good and all because it’s always good, but I just had this terrifying thought that maybe I’m self-destructive. That maybe that’s why I loved him so much.

 

This always happens over break. I go home and visit my family and hate myself more than ever. Seeing Iker used to be better than that, but now it’s just like breaking my head open. Sorry if that’s, like, too graphic, but honestly. He’s such a pain. I hate him. I love him. What’s the difference anymore? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to relate what I did over break to what we’re reading because, if you really want me to be honest, I didn’t even read the book. Sorry.

 

But you just said we have ten more minutes and we can’t stop until you call time, so I’m just going to keep writing and hope you don’t really read these journal entries. I have a feeling you don’t because you keep giving me 10/10 and last time I just drew a picture of a Bugatti and wrote two paragraphs on why I would turn straight for Natalie Dormer.

 

But I guess the point is I’m alone now. Not because of Natalie Dormer. I like to think that if we ever met, we’d actually be really good friends and she’d let me braid her hair or something because she seems really nice. Because of Iker. I used to think he was a good person, and that’s why I loved him. Now I love him because the rest of the world is dull, and he’s the only Thing that makes me feel Something. If that makes sense. I have a feeling it will because everything makes sense to you, and to be honest, sometimes I think you just make up a lot of hidden meanings. Like with the scarlet letter. I’m not so sure that book actually meant anything, but you made it sound like it meant something.

 

You’re actually a pretty cool teacher, and this isn’t just me sucking up to you just in case you really do read these things. I’m sorry about the Bugatti last week. Maybe I should have drawn that Lamborghini that’s apparently going for 4.5 million. Anyway, I’m not even mad that you fucked my ex-boyfriend. And I do sort of enjoy your class. Okay you said last thirty seconds of writing last thirty seconds of writing last thirty seconds of writing I AM STILL WRITING I AM WRITING okay bye.”

 

To: david.beckham@hastings.edu

From: iker.casillas@gmail.com

Subject: RE: You need to see this

 

D,

What do you want me to say about that?? We broke up. It’s not my business anymore. I’m sorry he knows about us if that’s what you’re referring to. Most everyone knows, but they won’t tell. No point in them keeping the secret for this long if they were planning on telling.

 

To: iker.casillas@gmail.com

From: david.beckham@hastings.edu

Subject: RE: You need to see this

 

Iker,

I’m not trying to lecture you on morality because we all know exactly where I’m headed the minute I die, but I just want to make sure you’re not turning into me. Don’t fuck this kid up because you’re frustrated with yourself.

 

This isn’t about what he or anyone else knows. And besides, if they did decide to tell, I would deserve it.

I’m cleaning out my trash and history now, so don’t reply to this message, please, but I just wanted to send you that so you knew. It seemed like the sort of thing you would want to know.

 

+

 

Iker slammed his computer shut and pushed it as far away from him on the bed as he could. His roommate was off at some party actually having a good time, and Iker had opted to stay home to work on a paper that was going nowhere because all he could do was scroll through Cesc’s Instagram. It was stupid. It was pathetic. It was honestly so, so pathetic, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

 

There was the latest picture of him cheering at the football game with the caption “RONALDOOO. RUNNING PARTNER IS SLAYING. FOUR GOALS NOT BAD” and the one before that of him and Unai holding bananas up to their ears with the caption “telephone.mp3. which one of us is beyonce and which is lady gaga.” Unai’s comment in all caps: IF ANY OF YOU SAY HE’S BEYONCE I WILL FIND YOU.

 

He scrolled all the way down to pictures from Graduation. Iker and Cesc together with Unai off to the side. Their faces pressed together, and their smiles. He clicked his own name from the link on Cesc’s picture and started to re-learn himself. There was the picture from a party a few weeks ago. He and his roommate were drunk and sloppy and Iker was wearing his glasses. They had their arms around each other.

 

He scrolled down farther. A sleepy picture of Cesc with no caption at all. Cesc had stolen his phone and uploaded the most adorable selfie of all time. He commented from his own account. “damn iker he’s way out of your league.” Iker’s response: “Shut up you’re so full of yourself.” And finally Sergio chiming in, mimicking Iker: “*old grandpa voice* kids these days with their selfies and their gay.”

 

He set his phone down and shut his eyes. He tried to fall asleep, but it wasn’t coming. He just wanted to sleep, but all he could think about was that photo from Before. The one with their faces pressed together and the one where Cesc was sleepy. The one with the banana phone and the all his stupid comments. He was just.

 

Iker rolled over and buried his head in his pillow. The images came then: fucking Cesc back when it wasn’t treated like torture. David hiding him in his closet when his wife walked in, and the way he had fucked him half still in the closet the moment she left. How his kid was downstairs, and how David had put his hand over Iker’s mouth to keep him from making noise.

 

Suddenly he wanted to torture himself all over again, but he couldn’t do it to Cesc. There was still a breath of reverence saved in him for that boy and that boy only. But for David. His hand ghosted over the front of his shorts, and he shut his eyes harder as he forced himself to remember all the cruel, nasty things they had done, and how those cruel, nasty things had dug their graves. All the pain, all the emptiness, all the darkness and the fears-- he deserved every bit of it for his sins.

 

There it was again, that image there. David saying he needed to speak with him. They went to his office together, and David shut the door. Locked it. Iker remembered how the click of that lock used to excite him and terrify him. Then he was being bent over and shoved on a desk and papers were flying. Hand in his shorts now. And there was a bite mark on his neck that, the next day, Cristiano pointedly didn’t ask him about but Sergio did, and Iker had to lie and lie and lie and pretend he wasn’t lonely.

 

Almost there, and the images were coming faster. Delicate flick of the wrist, vulgar sound, and his mind snapped. He couldn’t control it. Lust was guiding him, and it was moremoremore. His mind was hungry for any horrible image that would be more intense than the last. David touching his cheek and telling him he had been very bad.

 

Finally, he was there in that car again fucking Cesc and pretending they weren’t miserable. He was biting his neck and wishing to God it was a dream. He didn’t know what he was doing there anymore, and the sound of Cesc panting, crying out, saying Please Just Let It End, and then it did end.

 

Spent, he lay exhausted and burning.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I'm SO SO SO SORRY for the wait   
> Finally I'm back to post, and I'm sorry there's no gerlonso in this one, but honestly I cannot even think about Xabi fucking "Judas" Alonso right now because he grosses me out, so. just bear with me on that one. Anyway, as usual, let me know what you think, your favorite parts, your least favorite parts, etc. love you all.


	10. Tabula Rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how to summarize this, but girls come to school and stir up some drama ?  
> WARNING: I have NOT read this over so there WILL be typos and probably holes in the plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is ironic hA hA

Fernando woke up in Juan’s room after having crashed there the night before. After the game-- in which Sergio had nearly gotten sent off and Cristiano bagged a mere brace-- he’d headed over to Juan’s, completely forgetting that he roomed with both Cristiano and Fabio, and they watched American Horror Story until they passed out, neither one admitting to the other that maybe they were kind of a little bit afraid. 

(They’d had that dreaded conversation in which Juan had squirmed around with red cheeks, finally blurting out, “We were roommates last year, and you didn’t even talk to me.” 

“I know,” he’d said. “I thought I was in love. I know it doesn’t excuse anything, but.” 

“You thought you were?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And were you?” 

“I thought love meant trusting people and never wanting to be away from them and seeing yourself more clearly because they were by your side. But really it just meant being blind.” 

“So, what, you don’t believe in it anymore?” 

“No, I do,” Fernando said, playing with the remote. “I just want to pretend to be a cynic for awhile.” A long pause. Then, “I should have treated you better. I was just so wrapped up in Sergio… I hardly even spent any time in my own room last year.” At least he had the decency to look Juan in the eye when he said it.) 

Now Cristiano was sitting on the bed across from him, fully dressed in weekend clothes, staring at him thoughtfully like he was a math problem he either didn’t want to solve or couldn’t. Although, to be fair, it was how Cristiano looked at most people who weren’t part of his elite social group. 

“What,” Fernando said blearily. He turned to find Juan but was instead met with a pristine pillow and the other half of the bed already made. Presumably, Juan had already done this himself before heading down to breakfast or the cleaning service had come early and worked around the sleeping lump that was Fernando. 

“Nothing.” 

“Why are you watching me sleep?” 

“I’m not watching you sleep.” He was still wearing his kit from the night before which Fernando found quite alarming. “There’s a spider crawling across the wall just above your head. I was sort of hoping it might reach you before I go get food." 

Fernando sat up quickly to swat the spider off the wall and onto the floor. He thought about stepping on it. “What time is it? And where’s Juan?” 

“It’s half past eleven.” 

“Half past--” Fernando rubbed his face with his hands. “Shit. Alright.” 

Fabio emerged from the bathroom with wet hair and a pleased expression. “Oh,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “Fernando. I had no idea you were over.” 

Cristiano shot him a confused look. “So, when I said ‘Hey, Fabio, come check out this spider crawling across the wall near Fernando’s head, you just… misheard me?’” 

“No,” Fabio said, adoringly, “I ignore most of what you say. So it’s likely that I just didn’t hear that at all.” 

Cristiano rolled his eyes and stretched out on his bed, eyes trained on the ceiling. “You might want to leave, Nando,” he said lazily. His finger trailed in a gently curving downward slope along the wall beside him. “Sergio’s coming to pick us up. We’re going into the city.” 

“To shop,” Fabio added cheerfully. “You’re welcome to--” He cut off, looking at Cristiano who paid him no mind. “You’re welcome to come with us,” he finished softly. 

Fernando ripped the covers off him, fumbled around nervously for his phone and his wallet. His jacket was somewhere on the floor, but he’d get that later. No time to separate it from Juan’s things. He hastily looked around the room one more time before darting out the door without another word to Cristiano or Fabio. 

In the hallway, his nightmare approached. Still bleary-eyed and soft-hearted from a pleasant dream, he nodded to Sergio as they passed. The other boy paused, confused, but still in his dreamlike trance, Fernando continued on, not stopping. He paused once at the stairwell to look over his shoulder, but Sergio was disappearing into Cristiano’s room with a playful smile. 

+

“Ready?” he asked, holding his arms out. “Come on, boys, it’s Saturday. Time to get our Christmas shopping done.” 

“Sergio,” Cristiano said, holding the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even Halloween. I told you, we’re shopping for normal stuff, not Christmas presents.” 

Fabio was messing with his hair in the mirror. “Should I do a mohawk?” 

“Yes,” Sergio answered at the same time Cristiano said, “What the fuck.” 

Fabio flattened the hair down with his palm, staring at the two of them curiously, entirely unbothered by their reactions to his proposal. He existed in a state of perpetual confusion when it came to the students around him. They were so full of rage and jealousy and suffering when their entire worlds were covered in gold. And it wasn’t that they didn’t have a reason to hurt, because he understood that. He really did. What he didn’t understand was the constant competition, the constant need to stab someone in the back. He was quite content to praise everyone, to love everyone, to watch as everyone succeeded together. Sometimes he was struck with the awful notion that the world didn’t exactly work in this way, but he brushed it aside like he would a cobweb. 

“So Fernando was in here,” he said nonchalantly. 

He’d always had a little more heart than the other two when it came to Fernando. Sergio brushed people aside easily-- well, people didn’t include Cristiano, but that was an entirely different story. An entirely different world. Fabio had always been under the impression that the only one to truly care for Fernando was Leo. He never saw the desperate desire for a friend as a selfish dream, so he didn’t count Leo among the ones who lived for self-satisfaction. He quite liked the kid, and he liked the effect he seemed to have on Cristiano. Made him better, pushed him to not only spark but to ignite. 

Blinking himself out of his reverie, Fabio focused on Sergio who was frowning back at him, fingers pressed to his tight lips. 

“So?” 

“So, I thought you might like to know.” 

“A spider was crawling towards him,” Cristiano said somewhat dreamily. 

If Fabio hadn’t known him better, he honestly would have been concerned that all he ate was pot brownies, but that kid was obsessed with his physical health more than anyone Fabio had ever met. He would hardly put a goddamn french fry in his mouth without calculating exactly how many sit-ups he needed to do in order to burn that off and then some. 

“Well, I didn’t want to know,” Sergio said defensively, forgetting that he wasn’t really supposed to care about the blood feud that existed between him and his ex. “I mean,” he continued with a quick glance at Cristiano-- who paid him no mind-- “that it really does me no good to hear that.” 

“I think it does you some good,” Fabio countered. He picked his way over to Cristiano’s closet to examine his vast scarf collection. “It makes you less amoral.” He hesitated, running his fingers over a particularly beautiful silk one the color of ripe melons in the summer. “Or is it immoral?” He shrugged. “Either way, you lack morals in all the ways that count.” 

“And what ways count, Fabio?” His voice was dangerously sweet and Cristiano seemed to sense this because he shut his eyes and clung harder to the football jersey that hung tight across his shoulders. 

“People count.” He slung the melon scarf over his shoulders. It went horribly with the olive green of his shirt. He loved to dress horribly. “You could try being civil.” 

Sergio’s jaw tightened. “I was civil to him just before break, and he’s the one who had to be all…” He paused, searching for the right word. Lately he’d been trying to cut back on swearing. It wasn’t easy finding the right word when half his vocabulary consisted of cuss words. “...overreact-y,” he finally decided. “He didn’t have to be overreact-y about it.” 

“You did make out with me,” Cristiano said self-importantly from his place on the bed. 

“I did,” Sergio said thoughtfully. “Anyway, how’s the love life?” 

Fabio put the melon scarf back and began sorting through Cristiano’s hamper for something else to wear. His favorite shirt (Mango, V-neck, gray), a shirt he only ever tried on and put in the hamper (Hugo Boss, pink, a gift from Guti before he’d graduated), and the black polo he’d picked up at a thrift store in the city. He held up the gray shirt to his nose, sniffing it once before removing his olive green shirt and replacing it with the gray one. It was slightly too big on him, but it worked. 

He turned back around to ask Cristiano if he could borrow it, but the other boy was still lying drearily on his back staring at the ceiling. Sergio was staring at him with a faraway look in his eyes. Somewhere between a nightmare and a dream, he drifted, unable to tell dreams apart from reality. He could never tell what was truly within his reach, so he just assumed everything was. Perhaps that was why it always seemed like he had greedy hands. 

“Cris,” Fabio said softly, calling him back to reality. “Your love life?” 

Cristiano frowned as he turned towards Fabio like he was just slipping into a peaceful sleep and Fabio’s voice had broken the calm waters. 

“What about it?” 

“Well, how is it going?” 

“It’s not really.” He shut his eyes like he could melt into the mattress. 

He was always a tad dramatic for Fabio’s taste, but that was why he liked Cristiano most out of anyone. He was entirely himself. He didn’t fit Fabio’s taste perfectly and he never tried to. In fact, he never tried to mold himself to fit into anything. Fabio had the sinking suspicion that was why he just naturally did. If he would not reshape for the world, the world would mold itself around him, eating itself raw and building a new Rome in one day. 

That was probably the most interesting aspect of Cristiano. He seemed so rooted in himself yet he did not stand still. He was constantly moving to improve-- his game, his grades, his appearance. Every inch of him was thrumming with the desire to be better, immortal in his desire to be perfect. Blind to the fact that he already was. 

“Leo hates me,” he said, eyes still closed. “But life goes on. I’ll probably have another crush tomorrow. And another the next day. And so on and so on. It doesn’t bother me much that Leo isn’t going to work out. I think it bothers me more when things do work out. It’s just that…” He hesitated, and there was a quiet, frustrated inhale of breath. “I just don’t know if there’s any stopping. No one can hold my interest, at least not in any romantic sense. I’m beginning to wonder if something is wrong with me.” 

It was one of the only times he sat there and just poured something out to them, and it concerned Fabio that he was privy to such thoughts. In Fabio’s mind, he was able to recognize Cristiano as a being with emotions and feelings and thoughts who got embarrassed and laughed too hard. But when he looked at him, all he could see was some robot inclined towards sorrow. 

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Sergio said quickly before Fabio could offer up his reassurance that Cristiano was indeed perfect as they had all feared. 

For Sergio, love was a religion. He invested himself fully in every obsession that filtered through his lusty flesh to latch itself somewhere on his brain. With every boy before Fernando, he was worshiping a false god. With Fernando, he was worshiping a saint. With Cristiano, he was on his knees before paradise. He liked to compare them in his mind, but there was no comparison to be made. When he spoke Cristiano’s name, it was filled with such reverence that even an innocent bystander would understand that his whisper was a prayer. And what is a prayer if not a plea. 

“Everything,” he murmured into the air, letting his eyes close gently again. “Everything is wrong with me.” 

The uncertainty seemed to fall off Sergio like a cloak slipping to the ground in folds of silver, slippery fabric. He stood up abruptly and grabbed Cristiano’s shoulder, forcing him into a seated position. For a moment, he stood in front of him glaring until Cristiano’s muted expression made him take a step back. He softened instantly and sat beside Cristiano on the bed instead. 

Fabio went back to searching the closet. He could always tell when he wasn’t needed. It happened often, but he didn’t mind. Everyone needed a healthy dose of being ignored. It developed character. 

“Are you okay?” Sergio murmured, slipping his hand around his friend’s. It was just the two of them in that room. He told himself that Fabio was not in the closet close by, that no one could burst in at a moment’s notice. Normally so open with his emotions, he was different when it came to Cristiano. 

The other boy shrugged. There was an emptiness in his eyes, a loneliness that was perhaps brought on by some small event that triggered the memory of a much larger one. That feeling of inadequacy was something he felt all too often at the bedside of his father. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t fix it. God couldn’t fix it. He would become more powerful than God, then. But still he couldn’t fix it, even when he became his own God, and he began to realize that gods didn’t exist. Only monsters. Monsters and the men they are born of. 

For a moment longer, he continued to stare at Sergio blankly like he would never recover, and then, slowly, he pulled himself out. He rubbed his eyes with loose fists and walked unsteadily over to the closet. He touched Fabio’s shoulder, felt the thin fabric of the gray t-shirt between his fingers, let it drop back to his friend’s skin. 

He dug through the clean clothes pile, finally found a t-shirt with “Monet London 2012” splashed across the front in bright blues and yellows. He tugged off his kit and stood naked for a moment as if confused or lost in a daze. He tugged on the Monet t-shirt, searched a moment longer through the dirty clothes for his black football pants, and threw those on as well. 

He smoothed the shirt carefully with his hands, staring at the letters until finally he sighed, quiet and loose, like he was releasing some weight from his shoulders. “Ready?” 

+

It would not have done him any good to stay in that bedroom any longer. Not with Sergio and his adoration for Cristiano or Fabio with his understanding eyes. As much as Fernando craved to be understood, it hurt to be understood by someone so close to the people who had hurt him. He didn’t want sympathy; he didn’t want pity. At least not from him. 

He was wrong about Juan being down at breakfast. It was Saturday afternoon and he was enjoying lunch. As usual, he was behaving inappropriately for someone so young. He had a newspaper propped up with two napkin holders. Struggling to ignore Diego Costa’s loud conversation about what he’d learned in Ethics, he was tracing a finger under every word, mouthing them to himself as he went along. 

“Hello,” Fernando said, taking the spot across from Juan. 

Juan’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned the paper over, embarrassed. Even Fernando had to admit, he was adorable that way. The problem was that he wasn’t adorable all the time. Fernando only liked him between certain silences, and that wasn’t what genuine emotion was supposed to be like. It wasn’t supposed to be something one could switch on and off like a light in some poorly lit room. 

“Hello, Fernando,” he said shyly, face growing warm as he remembered the way Fernando had sleepily dug his fingers into Juan’s neck as he said goodnight, how his hot breath had sent Juan into an hour long frenzy of waiting until Fernando was perfectly asleep. And only then could he allow his own eyes to slam shut like prison gates. 

“I didn’t know you left this morning. You should have woken me up.” 

‘Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He had a peculiar way of speaking that Fernando liked. He said every word like he couldn’t tell a lie. “I just figured you could use the sleep.” 

“Yeah.” He shrugged. He picked a muffin off the half-empty tray on the table. He sniffed it cautiously before picking at the top. He wouldn’t have the whole thing. He would just have part of it. He could allow himself part of a muffin. “Only thing is, I woke up to Cristiano watching a spider crawl towards my head.” 

“Oh,” Juan said, sounding unconcerned, “He’s harmless.” 

“Cristiano?” 

Juan made a face. “No, him you have to watch out for. I was talking about the spider.” He took a muffin from the tray and started picking the almond shavings off the top. “But, you know, Cristiano’s not so bad. Besides the whole making out with your boyfriend thing.” 

“Yeah, besides that.” He picked at the rest of the muffin. “Anyway--” He cut off. Juan was looking down at the school’s daily paper, scratching the side of his cheek like he did when he was frustrated or lost. “What is it?” 

“When did they announce some of the girls from St. Anne’s would be in some of the honors classes?” 

“What?” Fernando stole the paper. “Never. They literally never-- I feel like this would be something to tell us before it actually happened, you know? Like, what the-- Oh. Oh wait. No, Mourinho mentioned this right before break.” He winced. “You were probably getting stitches in your hand during the assembly. That was when Muni kicked you, remember?” 

“Yeah, but. Why?” 

“Some building flooded, I think.” He squinted, trying to remember. “I don’t know. Does it matter?” 

Juan shrugged. “Just busier than ever around here. College apps. Girls, apparently. School.” You, he wanted to say. 

Fernando picked up on something. He could never quite pick up on the right things, but he always managed to notice something. “What? You look like you want to say more.” He picked at the bottom of the muffin now, devoting his entire attention to the pastry, not quite understanding the effect he was having on his unfortunate friend. 

“No,” Juan returned. “There’s nothing I want to say.” He hesitated. “It’s only…” He drifted off as Fernando looked up, all freckles and bright-eyed curiosity. “I was just going to tell you that you should eat the rest of the muffin since I’m forcing you to play football with me until dinner. And I don’t want to kick your ass on an empty stomach.” 

+

The appearance of the girls cheered everyone up. There were fewer than was expected, and when one wanted to see them, they often disappeared. They filtered through the hallways in their plaid skirts and uniform blazers, all soft lips and dazzling eyes, hair down to here and pixie cuts, winged eyeliner and faces scrubbed clean. Even the most uninterested in women from a purely sexual point of view found them to be fascinating creatures. 

They wandered through the halls hand in hand, braided each other’s hair during classes, kicked a football around with the boys. They were wild, and they carried an air of mystery. Even the ones they knew from parties, in the most modern of senses, seemed to gain a sort of timelessness as the drudgery of the day’s work infiltrated the strongest of minds. The very same girls they had watched vomiting in a bed of flowers could walk into a classroom with a book in one hand and appear, with no exaggerations, a goddess. It was not as though she wasn’t a goddess when she was talking up the night’s alcohol-- it was just, the air was packed down on them, and with one small movement, she transported all of them to a different time and a different place. She was an inhale. She was Cleopatra. 

After the boys returned from shopping, they noticed the appearance of the girls with some measure of excitement but it wasn’t until Monday morning that they finally escaped the oppressive state of their rooms to explore these mysteries more fully. 

Cristiano’s favorite had hair to her shoulders and these big, beautiful eyes. He watched her during math class. She sauntered up to the board, said something snappy he would never remember, and the whole class laughed. He smiled when she looked at him. He thought they might be having a moment, but she turned around almost at once and began to solve the problem. Before he could even put pencil to paper, she was finished, clapping the chalk off her hands and saying, Who even uses chalkboards still anyway? She stomped back to her desk with all the likeness of a Conqueror. 

Leo, not normally one to disrupt a perfectly boring class with something as juvenile as note-passing, noticed the exchange and tossed a crumpled up, hastily written note onto Cristiano’s desk. 

In his messy, childish handwriting: You’re so obvious.

A moment later, it landed back on his desk in the form of a paper airplane: You need to learn to appreciate beauty. You just sound bitter. 

He smiled despite himself and threw his reply: Don’t I have a reason to be? 

Cristiano caught it, read it, laughed quietly aloud, but didn’t reply. Leo turned around in his seat, and it was such a peculiar thing to be smiling about, but there they were, and there he was missing half the lesson because he wanted to write a silly note. 

He turned around, and Cristiano went back to watching the girl in the front of the classroom. 

From that moment on, it wasn’t like he made a point to watch her or to find her, but when she was around, he noticed. She was constantly flinging her hair over her shoulder or smiling at people through her cat-eyes. She stomped through the hallways in her heels. Where she went, eyes followed. 

The most fun part about being even vaguely interested in her was the sort of attention he received from Leo because of it. Sergio’s teasing and Fabio’s enthusiasm were normal, but Leo’s jealous gazes, his curt “Hello Cristiano” in the mornings when he would normally remain silent, his distracted replies in class when he was normally so attentive-- it was all new and alien, unfamiliar in the most pleasant of ways. 

What first began as his interest in something beautiful had quickly turned into his interest in something fascinating-- and then into something far uglier or perhaps just far more disquiet, depending on how one looked at it. When he saw her, he looked, but when he saw Leo was around as well, he looked harder, noticed the curve of her spine, the way her thin fingers rested on the desk beside her pencil, the way her long legs seemed to travel for miles before they ended in an S-curve up her body. 

One day before class started, people were gathered by her desk. Cristiano ignored the group, simply nodded to a few people who ushered him over, and sat in his desk to finish the last homework problem he’d had every intention of copying from someone else the night before. 

She was talking about something, gesturing wildly with her hands. The sound of her voice was captivating. She wasn’t even the sort of person he wanted to fuck, just the sort of person he wanted to stare at, perhaps photograph, definitely ask questions of. She was full of something he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was something to do with mystery. 

She was honest and open in conversation, leaving no details out, not leaving much to the imagination. Her laugh was loud, she showed the whites of her teeth when she smiled. Everything about her sang of simplicity, perhaps the spring-- and yet there was a tough rigidity behind it all. 

“...absolutely no way I was going to fly all the way home after the photoshoot. I mean, all the way home, right? There was just no way. And you have no idea how cold Russia is in the winter. I mean, you think it snows here. You guys, honestly, the snow is, like, up to my face. It’s insane. Anyway, there was no way I was going back to Russia for the break, so I was telling my manager ‘There’s no way I’m going back to Russia for the break’...” 

It was no great shock to anyone that she was a model for Llorente’s parents’. Apparently she was very up-and-coming in that world with magazine spreads and everything. 

“...You wouldn’t believe how bad the flooding got. You’d think at a school where our parents pay this much for our education, they wouldn’t have problems like this. We pay, and what do they spend it on? New TVs in the dining hall, and not even TVs that make sense. They could have put the menu up for Christ’s sake, but instead what do they do? They have to go and install some artsy screen with--” She cut off, flipped her hair. “-- the shape of the cross, which is cool and everything, like I said, very artsy, but really. The plumbing. But once it gets fixed, I won’t have to walk all the way over here for my classes anymore.” 

“When is that anyway?” Leo asked as he walked in. 

She looked up, squinted as if she was trying to remember his name before she gave him a proper answer. The confusion cleared. “Leo,” she said confidently, “I’m not sure, but probably three weeks. I was told two and a half, but it seems like everything takes longer. When they give you half weeks like that, you know they just mean to make it sound better than it actually is.” 

“Three weeks,” he repeated. He moved to take his seat, and she turned back to her disciples. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, opening his notebook with one rough tug. 

“Are you not enjoying their visit?” Cristiano asked sweetly, knowing full well that he was playing with things that were better left untouched. 

“They’re perfectly enjoyable,” he replied haltingly. “It’s her I can’t stand.” 

Cristiano resisted the urge to smile at his paper. Briefly, he wondered if there was something wrong with him. Jealousy was not meant to be a turn-on. Emotions were not meant to be a game. He was playing with honest-to-god fire, and he needed to stop. 

“It’s just three weeks,” he said despite himself. 

Leo might have found it oddly comforting because he started jotting down the homework problems with the ghost of a smile. 

+

It was a different sort of party than usual. Normally they were strictly for the boys-- normally being the only ones on campus-- but sometimes after games, students brought their girlfriends, friends, friends of girlfriends, friends of friends-- perfect strangers, really, all of them-- and it was a swirling mess of pretty lipstick smudges and mascara on the backs of hands. 

That was what the party was, a swirling mess. Halloween was the best night for parties because most of the teachers were off-campus, trick-or-treating with their families, or attending parties of their own. The few unlucky ones who were forced to stay hardly cared. The less than enthusiastic supervision meant drugs, alcohol, sex, immorality at its finest. 

Sergio was at the center of things, as he tended to be. He rarely smoked, but when he did, he almost always vomited in the morning. Cristiano, not looking forward to this, sat on a couch in the corner of the room. Fabio and Marcelo were on either side of him, leaning forward and arguing over his chest. Pepe was somewhere standing above them drinking his beer in silence, sometimes interjecting a few comments to sway the conversation this way or that. Fabio and Marcelo would look up, snap at him, and return to yelling at one another. It took them a long time to realize they were saying the same thing and Pepe’s infrequent comments were the only thing confusing them into arguing with each other. 

“Your other half is over there,” Fabio teased, pointing to the center of the room. 

In the center was a mess of dancers. Sergio, Llorente, Muniain, Javi Martinez, the girl (Irina), and her equally beautiful friends. Just beyond them, standing alone in the doorway, was Leo. 

“Who?” Cristiano asked, practically shouting over the noise. 

“That’s the question,” Fabio said, grinning, “Isn’t it?” 

Just as Leo spotted him across the room, a determined expression clouding his features, Sergio looked over. He stopped dancing and stumbled over, not half as drunk as he looked. That was the thing about Sergio. If he was really having a good time, he was only mildly drunk. He didn’t want to lose himself to that oblivion until later. Once the fun was over, once the dullness of regular life began to settle in again-- that was when he picked up the bottle and drank like-- well, if one were to put it truthfully-- his father. 

“What are you doing all the way over here? It’s Halloween!” He grinned down at Cristiano, quite pleased with his memory. He was some sort of gladiator. He wore gold and black eyeliner, a red draped thing that might have once been a cape, leather pants, and brown sandals that looked like he was probably paid to take them off the hands of the owner. He looked magnificent, as beautiful as Cristiano had ever seen him, and it awoke in him a nostalgic longing. 

“Just sitting,” he said, not meaning to smile. “What are you doing?” 

“I was dancing,” Sergio explained, pointing to the group who had already turned away from him and started up a new strange dance with more grinding than most could bear. “But then I saw you sitting over here and I wanted to ask you what your costume is.” He blew smoke in Cristiano’s face, blinking innocently as the other boy waved the white swirls away. 

“I’m Zeus,” he said. “Can’t you tell from my toga?” 

“Oh,” Sergio replied enthusiastically, rubbing his face with his hands as if he felt foolish for not seeing it before, “I thought that was a bedsheet.” 

“It is. It’s also a toga, Sergio.” 

“Right,” he said nodding, smiling happily. “Well it’s sort of adorable. Look at you, king of the gods. And me, a gladiator. I wonder which one would have been more powerful.” 

At first Cristiano thought he was joking, but when he saw Sergio was actually debating it in his mind, he snapped his mouth shut and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, smiling too, “I wonder.” 

“Anyway,” Sergio said dreamily, blowing out another stream of smoke, “Want me to get you something? We have Snickers and Scotch in Llorente’s room, Sour Patch and Tequila in Fabio's and your room, Twix and Dark Rum in the corner near my bed, Butterfinger and Maker’s Mark in Mario’s room, Hershey’s and Crown Royal outside the bathrooms, and Tootsie Rolls and Jack Daniels on the table next door.” 

“Twix and Dark Rum please,” Fabio said pleasantly. For some reason no one could understand, rum was his favorite. He tried to explain that it made him feel like a pirate, but. 

“I want Butterfinger, but I also want Tequila,” Marcelo complained. “Do we get to mix and match?” 

“Marcelo,” Sergio said, horrified, “There is no mixing and matching. It’s sacrilegious. I created everything from a list I found." 

“Fine,” he sighed. “What about Kit Kats. Do you have those?” 

“Kit Kats and Bourbon,” Sergio replied, snapping like he was going through a book in his mind. “I’ll be right back. Nothing for you, Cris?” 

“I’ll have one Twix,” he said, thinking he would just give it to Fabio and call it a day. 

“Good.” Sergio nodded and disappeared in search of his candy-booze combinations. 

After hesitating only a moment, Cristiano stood and followed, halted only momentarily by Fabio’s hand on his arm and his quick, “Are you answering that question now?” 

He was too wise for his own good, and Cristiano shrugged helplessly before continuing on his way. When he finally found Sergio, he was rooting through the candy in a near-empty room down the hall. 

“Cris,” he said, and the other two couples in the room left at once, whispering as they passed, huddling together in the hallway and staring over their shoulders until Cristiano closed the door and could see them no longer. 

“Hey.” 

“I was just coming back. What’s up?” 

“Can we just hang out in here?” 

“Well, I was going to--” 

“Sergio,” he said, and the other boy looked up from the bowl he was holding. He dropped the candy immediately, wetting his lips with his tongue. The cigarette was nowhere to be found, but Cristiano knew if he could just. He would taste it on his lips. 

“Are you okay?” 

“What’s that?” 

He held up the bottle. “Vodka.” 

“No. Get the Scotch.” 

Sergio obeyed cautiously, handing it over. “Dude, you know you don’t drink, right?” 

“I think I can have one night.” He hesitated. “I think I’m allowed to forget my reasons why for one night. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you know. I mean, I don’t want this to be, like, a peer pressure type thing. You know you don’t have to drink to be around me.” 

“I know,” Cristiano replied, smiling briefly. He poured two glasses, gestured to the bed, and they sat down. He sipped his, said, “So things have been weird these past few weeks.” 

“Yeah, you and Leo. How’s that going?” 

“It’s not. I told you, we fought. It didn’t go well. We talk sometimes in class, but otherwise.” He shrugged. “I know he’s jealous of this girl I think is interesting, but I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. If it means anything at all.” 

“Jealousy is revealing,” Sergio murmured, knocking back the whole glass. 

Cristiano did the same, cringing. “Have you ever been jealous then?” 

“Have I ever?” He poured them both another. “Are you joking? Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” 

Three shots later, falling back on old habits in a flurry of sweat and exhaustion. Hands roaming up and down muscled backs, and the way the light from the party crept in from underneath the door. Kisses like broken glass, and the stutter-step breath of a muffled moan. 

Drinking in the familiarity, Cristiano shut his eyes and thought, I could do this every day. His feelings for every other person had been fleeting, but with Sergio, there was always something wild beneath the surface, even when things had appeared tame. 

There was a moment of hesitation just as Sergio’s hands ghosted over the tie holding Cristiano’s toga together. “Are we really doing this all over again?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I can’t do it all like last time.” 

The curtains fluttered; the window was open behind them, but the noise did nothing to drown out the disquiet of his words. There was this moment between them, cluttered and hazy, and then their lips met again. Frenzied this time, as if some fire had been set, his fingers were at the tie again. There was the sound of a belt buckle being undone as Sergio’s costume began to fall apart. 

“I love you,” he said. Then, “No. It just fell out.” As if he could take it back. As if that sort of thing can actually be taken back. 

Cristiano was too far gone to hear what he had said. He hardly pulled back, just let out a small moan at the words, running his fingers through the other boy’s hair. Was about to open his mouth and say something, perhaps an echo of what had been said before. 

“I--” 

And then the door opened and someone was framed by the light, looking around like a lost puppy. “Sorry,” he said, blinking rapidly to get used to the dark, “I was just looking for the red vines.” Then, a rigidity shot through the figure as his eyes adjusted to the dark, and a little intake of breath was all Cristiano needed to know, even in his drunk state, that it was Leo. 

He waited there a moment, staring at them, frozen or waiting for something. He looked as if he wanted to speak. 

"Okay," he said, and he turned quickly to leave. 

Dazedly, Cristiano stared at the door rapidly closing behind him, hardly hearing Sergio shaking his arm and saying, "Are you going to go talk to him? Are you going to go after him?" 

"There is nothing to retrieve," he said, brushing it aside. He was too drunk to care. 

Sergio looked at him for a moment, open-mouthed. Then, as if he was forcing himself to be silent, he looked away. Hesitated just a moment. 

"Stay here," he said, laying a hand on Cristiano's shoulder. "Alright?" 

"Where are you going?" He asked, vaguely aware that he should be concerned, but Sergio was already out the door. “It just feels like we’re going in circles,” he said to an empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, sorry for the late update and let me know what you think. if you don't want to leave a comment on here, you can always just message me on tumblr (user: illarras) or tweet me (@illarramendis) or even kik me if you have a very pressing concern and/or request (bellaaros on there)


	11. Business As Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of the party, and the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on getting back to all your comments! Thank you so much for leaving them on the last couple chapters. I really appreciate your feedback, and I'm trying to answer every single one!

The door opened, and Cristiano was still sitting there with his back turned. The bottle of scotch was in his hands, and he looked to be steadily consuming it. Half expecting it to be Sergio, he took a violent swig and turned around. 

Fabio shut the door behind him. "So we need to have a talk," he said, with some clarity. He was none too sober himself, but he could regain control of his mind for the sake of a friend. 

"About what," Cristiano said sullenly. "Did you ever think that maybe I don't want to?" 

"Are you a belligerent drunk?" He peered at the other boy carefully. "I feel like you're a belligerent drunk because you tend to be a little belligerent even when you're not drunk." 

"I'm not belligerent," he shot back, clutching the bottle to his chest. "I just don't feel like talking about how I just made out with Sergio, and Leo walked in, and now-- I don't know." He scrunched up his nose. "I sort of feel like I’m going to be beyond all of this soon. I'll be in Madrid. They'll be here." They would be an endless stream of disappearances. 

"So, what, burn as you go?" 

"No, I'm not out to hurt anyone." 

He had drunk once or twice before his father had died, but back then he was too young to really get plastered, and tipsy had been his idea of wrecked. He could speak back then, and he could think then; there had just been a strange weightlessness to his body. It disbalanced him. What had once been his center of gravity was now nothing, nothing. Now he could feel nothing. 

He could speak. He mostly knew what he was saying. It wasn't a wild drunk. It wasn't artificial sweetener he was shoving down his throat, and he didn’t drink for happiness or to laugh harder than his sober ribs would allow. He drank, now, for clarity. The veil had disappeared from his eyes. 

“You’re my friend,” he said slowly. “Aren’t you?” 

Fabio sat on the bed beside him with a long sigh. It was worse than he had thought. “You know that I am. But that’s not the problem or the point.” 

“I know,” he said miserably. “You always bring me back to what matters.” 

“So let me bring you back now.” He took the bottle of Scotch and set it on the nightstand. “I’m not saying you need to make a choice because that’s really stupid and really predictable, you know? You’re caught between two people, so you must decide.” He shook his head. “Not true at all, you understand?” 

“I wasn’t planning on choosing anyway.” He ran his hand over his face. Everything felt like it would last forever; yet, forever was brief. A candle, burning. Wan but beautiful nonetheless. “I was planning on saying goodbye and leaving and being all alone in Madrid. Then I won’t hurt anyone. I won’t start this awful drama and tension and….” He trailed off. 

“I want to tell you that it’s not you.” Fabio bit his lip. “I want so badly to tell you that you don’t hurt people. I want to give you some kind of comfort.” 

“But you have always given me the truth, and tonight is no different.” 

“Yes,” he said softly. “Tonight is no different.” 

Cristiano tipped his glass back to get the drops at the bottom. “Have I already told you that I wish I loved you?” Fabio was silent. “I mean, I do. You know I love you.” His words were running together, but things were still mostly clear. “Just not in the way that I wish. It would be so simple. So easy. We understand each other. We work well together.” 

“Things aren’t meant to be that easy.” He gently took the glass from Cristiano’s hands and set it next to the bottle. “And I appreciate that-- you know I love you too-- but now is not the time for that. You can tell me you love me every day for the rest of your life because we will always be friends.” 

Drunk Cristiano was far more sentimental than Sober Cristiano. At the words “we will always be friends,” he stretched his arms out with an expression like he was close to tears. 

“Don’t,” Fabio said wearily. “I’m not saying anything truly profound. It’s just a fact. We’re the sort of people who will call each other when we’re eighty and talk about the scrabble games we play every Wednesday.” 

“I don’t like Scrabble.” 

“Monopoly.” 

“Fine.” 

“But the thing is, if you fuck up with Sergio and Leo, they could walk away. Sergio would have a harder time doing that than Leo, but he would because you have hurt Sergio far more than you have hurt me-- or anyone really-- in the past. It’s not your fault. At least some of it isn’t. But the parts that are your fault could end this. And I don’t mean end it for a few months. I mean end it.” 

“You mean someday he won’t love me.” 

A muscle jumped in Fabio’s jaw. “No, that’s not what I mean at all.” 

He took it in quietly. Finally, with an eye on the bottle of Scotch, he said, “I’d like to be alone now.” 

Fabio wasn’t an idiot, and he’d been drunk far more than Cristiano, so he knew the drill. He was a well-oiled machine when it came to the process of picking someone else up off the bathroom floor-- metaphorically speaking and quite literally. 

“As much as I want to respect your wishes, I can’t do that.” 

Cristiano glared up at him, emotions striking him like lightning. “Can you fuck off and leave me alone to my thoughts?” 

But Fabio wasn’t having it. “I know you,” he said, much harsher than he intended. “I know you, and I know your past, and I know your fears too. If I thought for a second that you would just sit in here with your thoughts, I’d leave you alone. You know that I would. You know that I trust you to do what is right. But in the kind of shape you’re in…” 

Cristiano looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Cristiano. That’s why you do it so rarely. You hate being awful at things.” He paused. “Look, if you really want to be alone, I’ll leave, but I’m taking the bottle.” 

“No,” he said, as Fabio turned to pick it up. “Take it away from me if you want, but-- don’t go.” 

“Okay,” he said, moving to sit down. “Okay.” 

+

Leo was sitting outside when Sergio found him. Far away from the dorms, he was perched on the bleachers in front of one of the smaller football fields with his hands shoved in his pockets. He was cursing under his breath, shivering in the cold. When he saw Sergio approaching, he gave him a death glare and stood to leave, “I really don’t want to see you right now.” 

“I just came to talk to you.” Sergio looked uncomfortable. He didn’t do this very often. He didn’t even know exactly what he was doing; it just felt right to walk out of there. He was drunk, but he could manage, and if he could manage, it had to be done. 

“Well I don’t want to talk to you either. It’s just not a good time, alright? Why don’t you go back to fucking your boyfriend. We can all go back to who we used to be. Let the dust settle. We’re better as we were.” He sat back down heavily. 

Sergio sat on the very end of the bleachers, leaving at least two feet between him and Leo. He took his time rummaging in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it, blowing in Leo’s direction. “He’s not my boyfriend, you know. And I’m starting to think he never will be. I thought maybe we could work things out, maybe we could be together, but. If we just keep fucking up, what’s the point, you know?” 

Leo’s hands formed fists in his pockets. He wasn’t totally without compassion, but hearing Sergio talk about his problems as if they were truly problems was just maddening. It wasn’t as if he was friendless every day. It wasn’t as if he had to try to eat lunch between classes so that he wouldn’t be seen sitting alone again. It wasn’t as if he was the invisible one. 

“Sucks for you,” he said, a bit heartlessly. “But if you want to start talking about your feelings, you’re going to have to find someone who actually cares.” 

“That’s the thing,” Sergio said, wide-eyed, ignoring the bitterness in Leo’s tone. “No one does.” 

“Are you joking right now?” Leo removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together to generate some warmth. Sergio, watching, handed over his cigarette. Wordlessly, Leo took it. He smoked for a minute, thoughtfully staring at the field and feeling too much like a cliche, before handing it back to Sergio and dusting his hands off on his pants. 

“No,” Sergio finally answered. “I’m not joking. Are you still freezing?” 

“I’m fine,” Leo said irritably. 

“What’s your costume meant to be anyway?” 

“I’m not in costume,” he snapped. “Dressing up really isn’t that much fun if you literally have zero friends. Then you’re just an idiot in a costume.” 

“It’s okay,” Sergio said softly. “We’re all idiots in costumes when you think about it.” 

“Well, I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about any of you.” 

A pause, and then Sergio couldn't resist: “You want to think about Cristiano though.” 

Leo turned on him, eyes flashing furiously. “Don’t talk to me about him. Don’t you dare talk to me about him. I told myself if I saw him tonight that I was going to apologize for my behavior, for being such an asshole when he was actually interested in that godawful girl, but--” He cut off. His anger was running out. 

“But what,” Sergio prompted. Hurting, curious-- he couldn’t tell anymore. 

“What right do I have to be angry?” He fiddled with the buttons on his coat. “He was making out with you. He has every right to make out with whoever he wants. He doesn’t belong to anyone. People don’t belong to people, you know?” 

“I know. I’m beginning to see that.” 

Leo quit fiddling with his coat and looked up at Sergio. His eyes were out of focus. He was looking at something beyond their surroundings, something within himself that he couldn’t quite make peace with. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Sergio flicked his cigarette to the floor of the bleachers and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Sure.” 

“What happened to Fernando?” 

Sergio swallowed and turned away, wincing slightly at his name. After a moment, he said, “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, we used to be friends until you came along and fucked everything up.” He paused. “No offense. And then you two fell apart, and I thought maybe he’d want to be friends again, but he went off with fucking Juan and Llorente and Muniain, for Christ’s sake, and now we don’t even look at each other. He looks dead half the time. So. I mean exactly what I asked: What happened to Fernando?” 

Sergio hesitated. “Look, I don’t want to sound like an asshole--” 

“Well, I already know you are one, so.” He bit the inside of his cheek, forced himself to soften his voice. “So just spit it out.” 

Sergio hesitated just a moment longer. Leo was beginning to realize that, for all his faults, Sergio was not entirely without compassion either. 

“He loses himself too easily,” he said finally. With some effort, he forced himself to look Leo in the eye. “Partly my fault, partly just because that’s the way he is. When things fall apart around him, he doesn’t know how to cling to himself and remain intact.” 

“But you apparently do.” 

“Oh, I have to know how,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve mastered it. You don’t go four years loving Cristiano Ronaldo without knowing how to take an emotional beating.” 

Leo gave him an odd sort of half-smile. “When you’re not around everyone else, you’re not that bad.” 

Sergio shrugged. “I’m a little drunk, so that could be where this pleasantness is coming from.” 

“Sure.” There was a long stretch of silence, and Sergio was starting to feel pretty proud of himself. He’d managed to run after Leo and fix things, and if Cristiano wanted to choose one of them or both of them or neither of them, somehow things would be okay. They would be horribly, horribly painful, but they would be okay. 

Then, “I’m thinking about taking a train tomorrow.” 

“How’d you get permission to leave campus? I heard Zidane’s being a real hardass about giving permission slips out.” 

He sucked in a breath, wondered if he could pass for sane in that moment. “I didn’t get a pass.” 

It was silent, and then Sergio rummaged in his pocket for another cigarette, but his hurried, nervous fingers couldn’t find one, and he gave up too soon. “Fuck,” he said finally. “Why?” 

“You have no clue what it is to be really alone, and I hope you never have to find out,” he said, voice hollow. “It’s just a whole different world. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. This is the sort of thing I would talk about with Cristiano, not with you.” 

Sergio pictured them then, sitting together in the night, talking about things like the future. And he realized that there were aspects of him and aspects of Leo that Cristiano needed, but one of them entirely was too potent. 

“Stay,” Sergio said, ignoring the rest of what he had said. He was good with selective hearing like that. “I don’t really believe you were going to leave because it’s not in you to run away. I’ve seen you. You scowl, you mutter rude things under your breath, you glare. But you don’t run away. So don’t start now.” 

Leo just looked at him like he was crazy, and Sergio was starting to feel a little self-conscious -- the kid had a look that could drive right through your skull -- so he slid off the bleachers and dusted off the back of his costume. “Bye then.” 

“See you tomorrow,” Leo said miserably. 

+

Sergio returned to the party in a horrible mood. He was drunk, but his pleasant buzz had been ruined with the drama of the night, so he was left with a weightless confusion rather than a weightless clarity. He went through the dorms like a madman, searching for that one head, the scowl, the sharp eyes. Even he had to be there somewhere. 

He stopped in one of the hallways near the punch, dunked a cup in and, hand dripping, drained the first cup, then another. 

And sure enough, when Sergio looked up, there he was. Llorente was surrounded by some of the aspiring models, throwing their hair over their shoulders, stunning, dazzling. Their laughter was like knives to the heart-- no, deeper. Knives to something. Tough metal against brittle bone. Their auras possessed the natural weightless joy that Sergio had lost in the events of the night. 

Juan was beside Llorente, talking to a girl with a pixie cut and a gap between her teeth. She looked like some kind of fairy with a wreath of flowers in her hair, and Sergio stared at her a moment before running his eyes over the other figures. Muniain clutching Llorente’s shoulder while he talked to an energetic girl with fiery red hair and lipstick to match it. Then, Fernando. 

“I need to talk to you,” Sergio said stiffly, gesturing sloppily with his cup. “Is now a good time?” 

“No,” Fernando said plainly. 

“Alright, well I was just asking to be polite. I need to talk to you now.” 

Fernando scowled, but he disengaged himself from the group and followed Sergio out into the hallway. “What the hell is this about anyway? You know, you have no right just coming in here and fucking stuff up. I know fucking stuff up is normal for you, but--” 

“It’s about Leo,” Sergio said quietly, jaw tight. “I’m not friends with him, and I hardly know him, but he’s going through a really hard time right now.” 

Fernando felt something harden in his mind. He was developing a sort of resolve. “And what, you think things are so easy for me?” 

“I think you have three people who would die for you over there--” he gestured roughly with his finger, and Fernando slapped his hand down. “And Leo has nobody, and he’s still out there on the bleachers worrying about you, worrying about whether you’re okay or not.” 

Fernando scoffed. So that’s what this was about. It was Sergio’s sick attempt at igniting something. He could never just leave things alone. It wasn’t in his nature. “You have no right to ask if I’m alright or not. We’re broken up.” 

Sergio took a step back, confused. His lips parted. “That’s not.” He exhaled loudly, instantly regretting everything. He wished he had just stayed in that room with Cristiano instead of going outside to track down Leo, instead of hearing how lonely he was, instead of caring. Caring was so, so bad. It was poison. Cristiano was right to stay away from it. 

“This isn’t about you,” he said. “I was honestly just telling you that your friend is really fucking upset, but you obviously don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself, so. Goodbye.” 

He turned on his heel, leaving Fernando pissed off and blushing. He didn’t care. He just didn’t care anymore. He barked at a couple to leave a room and they did, instantly. He locked the door, buried his head in a pillow. Shut his eyes until he didn’t feel so ridiculous for the tears that leaked out. 

+

Unai was nowhere to be found. Cesc was wandering around on his fifth, sixth, something-th drink, looking for somewhere to rest his nervous energy when he saw Beckham poking his head around the wall. Cesc's eyes widened. The entire party would be shut down. Everyone would be suspended or worse for drinking. He started forward, whispering, "Mr. Beckham" until he reached the other man. 

He pulled them both into the nearest empty room, locking it behind him. "Sh," he said loudly. "What are you doing here?" 

"Chaperoning," he said tiredly. "And what are you doing pulling me in here?" 

"There's stuff you don't want to see out there," Cesc assured him. "Dancing. Awful teenage dancing. And costumes. Oh, God. The costumes. Parts of bodies on display that you never thought you would see. Candy. So much candy you'll doubt the existence of God--" 

"Alcohol, drugs, sex," he finished sitting on the bed behind him. He raised his eyebrows at Cesc's silence. 

"I-- what? What? Drugs?" Cesc shook his head. "Unless you mean Advil because the music is so loud." He gave a high, false laugh. "Am I right?" He held up his hand for a high five. 

Beckham just stared at it until he lowered his hand entirely. "I'm not going to break up the party if that's what you're worried about. I am just under strict instruction to watch, chaperone from a distance. As long as nobody dies or gets sent to the hospital on my watch, I have done my job. Admin doesn't want to piss off the, uh, wealthier families." 

Cesc bit his lip, the tension gone from his body now that he was certain the party was safe. "You're kind of a shitty chaperone." 

"Do you want me to break up the party or do you want me to continue being a shitty chaperone?" 

"The latter," Cesc said agreeably. He slid down the door to sit comfortably on the ground. Not too sure what he was doing, he didn't say anything right away. "You know," he began, and Beckham raised his eyebrows again, "it's weird looking at you knowing you fucked a student." 

"Cesc," he said warningly. 

"What," he laughed, "are you going to get me in trouble for saying that?" 

There was a pause. The older man's eyes narrowed, and Cesc, in an instant, could see what Iker had seen. Iker, though he would probably never realize it himself, was a shadow of the man he had once loved. Cesc could see himself shadowing Iker's own footsteps, falling falling falling until the pure unadulterated guilt consumed him whole. 

"How is Iker anyway?" He asked conversationally, as if he were asking about a paper Cesc hadn't turned in or pointing out a word he was pronouncing incorrectly. As if they were both thinking about that boy like a thread that connected them. 

Cesc spat out a laugh. "I honestly could not tell you." He started laughing now, harder and harder. Shapes were. They were there in front of him, and they were making the whole situation a lot more ridiculous. What were shapes doing just floating in the air like that? What business did they have in the air? 

"Wonderful," Beckham muttered under his breath. "Cesc, what did you take?"

"I didn't take anything," he said, eyes wide. "I'm no thief." 

He stared at the boy for a second before pulling out his phone. He dialed quickly, eyes on the dark-eyed maniac. It rang once, twice, three times. Just when he was feeling foolish and about to give up, a voice answered. 

"What." 

"I'm sorry to call right now. I know it's Halloween, and you're probably having a good time--" There was the pulsing of music, then the closing of a door. A peculiar silence as if he had entered a space outside of reality. "--but it's Cesc. He's...drunk, probably high." He looked at Cesc again. "Definitely high. There's no problem. I just need to know who to call to pick him up and take him back to his room." 

An intake of breath, then, "What the fuck." 

"I can't leave the room myself. If the other students see me, admin will be under fire for not shutting this thing down." He bit his lip, lowered his voice. "I'm just watching from the hallway to make sure no one is doing cocaine. Zidane specifically said no cocaine. I'm going to look shady as fuck if I appear out of nowhere dragging Cesc behind me." 

"You are shady as fuck" came the swift reply. "Is he okay though? I mean." A pause, like fingers hovering over scar tissue. "Is he alright?" 

"He's fine. Is there someone who will take care of him for the night though? I don't think he should be wandering around like this." 

Cesc was still laughing about the drug comment from a few minutes before. He was totally fine. He could stand. He could walk. He was coherent. Everything was just so much more interesting and so much funnier. His fingertips were jelly, and his toes were on fire, but the burning was a pleasant sensation. 

"A sensational sensation," he said out loud, quite aware that he should be panicking-- he was caught red-handed, after all. "Isn't that beautiful?" 

"Your brother maybe?" David prompted, glancing at Cesc worriedly. "Cesc is totally fine. I just don't trust him walking around alone like this, you know? Someone could take advantage." 

Cesc spread his arms out and smiled easily. "What is there to take advantage of anyway? Aren't I empty? Aren't I glass?" He held up his fingers to take a look; he was horrified when he found he couldn't look through them. 

"Yeah," came the slow, measured reply in David's ear. Worried, careful, controlled. "Not my brother. Find Cris. He'll be sober, so he can take of Cesc. If you can't find him, find Sergio." 

"And if I can't find either of them? Your brother maybe?" 

There was a long, painful pause. "No, not him. If you can't find either of them, find Leo or Fernando. I'll text you Cris and Sergio's numbers, alright?" 

"Alright." 

There was a long pause, and David could hear Iker's fingers working swiftly across the screen. The music on Iker's end stopped briefly and then started up again, louder and with more intensity. 

"Okay," he said. "Just." 

"What's that?" He plugged his other ear, thinking the boy had been cut off. 

"No. Nothing. Just protect him." 

It was an odd choice of wording. He could have said anything. He could have said take care of him, make sure he's alright, watch him. But protect-- as if something was haunting him and he needed a shield. 

"I will," he said, shutting his eyes at the click. 

Cesc was still on the floor, but now he was staring up at David with some measure of fascination. "Do you love him as much as I do?" 

"No," David said, sliding his hands in his pockets. "I can't love him. What we did was wrong. Now I'm going to have someone pick you up and take you back to your room." 

Cesc smiled. "Alright. That sounds fine. But just because something was wrong doesn't mean you didn't love him. What the fuck is a moral compass anyway, you know? What is the point when both ways make us so, so miserable?" He started laughing again, coughing like he was choking up blood. 

David turned around, trying to force himself to calm down, calm down. Be the authority figure. Be the caretaker. Not the jailer and not the college grad with too much time and a weakness for alcohol. 

Cristiano didn't answer. It went straight to voicemail. A cute little thing about leaving a message, him answering later. Standard but packed with a million different facets to obsess over simply because he was the one speaking. 

He tried Sergio, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Cesc was cackling in the corner, doubled over and gasping for air. He was some sort of zombie or dead person. There was a bucket of fake blood on his white t-shirt, and his makeup was red and savage. 

"What." Sergio sounded wrecked, exhausted; his voice was hoarse. 

"Don't ask questions. Iker gave me your number--" 

"Beckham?" 

"--Cesc is in Room 410, and he's...all fucked up. I won't be here when you arrive." He hung up, grabbed his coat, and approached the door. 

Cesc rolled out of the way, sliding across the floor on his stomach. "If I'm glass," he said, "why haven't I broken yet?" 

"Maybe you're made of stronger stuff," he said quietly, watching the boy bounce around the room like a toddler on too much sugar. Nearly smiling, he left without a sound. 

+

Iker was livid, and Sergio's head was pounding. He didn't feel like dealing with a pissed off Iker, but he was almost looking forward to seeing Cesc-- or as much as he could look forward to seeing anyone in his state at least. 

"I cannot fucking believe you guys didn't watch him. That is your job. You watch my brother, and you watch Cesc. I know you've never really had to look out for anyone in your life before, Sergio--" Even the way he snarled his name was something sharp, something dangerous. "-- but literally my entire life has been consumed by taking care of shit, cleaning up shit, and I'm done. I am done with it because nobody else gives a fuck." 

"Iker--" Sergio clutched his head; his eyes were swollen and red, eyeliner smudged and terrible. 

"This is your responsibility now. I thought you understood that. Cris understands it. He's got enough to deal with already, but he tries to keep an eye on them anyway because he understands taking care of other people, but all you have been every moment of your life is selfish. You and fucking Beckham and fucking Cesc and fucking Unai. I'm done with every single one of you." 

His voice was so biting that Sergio had to lean against the wall in the hallway and shut his eyes. Someone patted him on the shoulder. "Too much to drink, eh, Ramos?" And he didn't feel like explaining he'd hardly had that much to drink, and he was destroyed in other ways. 

"Iker," he began again. 

"No. I understand drinking." There was a bang like a door opening and shutting. Music on his end. Someone calling his name and him snapping back, something muffled. He returned: "I'm fine with drinking, but I will not have Cesc fuck up his life with drugs." 

Sergio didn't feel like explaining that it was probably not as bad as he thought and that Iker himself was no angel himself although, granted, he'd never touched anything remotely close to hard drugs. He didn't feel like explaining that they were all too invested in their fitness, too invested in their grades, too invested in their livelihood, or just plain too scared-- they were much more "boring" than people gave them credit for-- to touch anything that could really ruin them, and Cristiano wouldn't go near anything at all, control freak that he was. And as reckless as Sergio was, there were certain things he held himself back from for fear of addiction; people, objects, drugs. He wasn't going to be a cheap copy of those that had gone before him. 

He let Iker worry, ramble on in his ear for a good minute and half about Cesc and his grades and his well-being. The conversation quickly turned to Unai who Iker, for no particular reason other than brotherly concern, was flipping his shit over. Sergio finally checked back in when the topic shifted to him: 

"I just don't know what to do about you anymore. You're reckless and intense and passionate, and sometimes these are great qualities, but sometimes they are my worst nightmare." His voice was shaking. He was either cold or positively murderously angry. "Go take care of him, and fuck you both. I mean it. Fuck. You." 

"Iker," he tried again, head still against the wall. He was disoriented, felt like he couldn't breathe. There were too many people, and he was too alone in the midst of them as Karim took note of who he was speaking to, Gonzalo kept bumping his arm and asking when he was going to dance, Marcelo was begging him to have another drink-- utterly, utterly alone. "I need to find Cesc. I can't do this right now. You have no idea the night that I've had--" 

The dial tone answered him better than Iker probably would have. For a moment, he was stunned; they just didn't do that to one another. And then, he blinked, blinked harder, forced himself to move on because his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and he didn't want anyone to understand or guess why. Shallow, that's what he was. Motivated by self-preservation and vanity. A mirror, a shard of clean-cut diamond, something battered-- his costume that night. 

He opened 410 to find Cesc vomiting in the corner, laughing and rocking back and forth like he couldn't see straight. 

"Hey," he said casually. 

The room was spinning, but he started forward, holding out his hands to steady himself. Self-preservation and vanity. What was selfless about this? Nothing, nothing. He ground his teeth. He was nothing. The room was spinning still, and he projected himself back in time for a split second-- screaming, throwing, drinking too much. A family dinner. They were pretty on the outside. They smiled too much. They drank too much. The room was always spinning. His father couldn't look at him when the room wasn't spinning, but he smiled so beautifully. 

He was vomiting up his night still, and Sergio sank to the ground beside him, putting his hand on his shoulder. Cesc wasn't laughing anymore; he was crying into his arm and blathering on about not knowing what was happening. 

"It's okay," he said, not understanding either. "It will be over soon." 

"No," Cesc moaned miserably. "I'm going to get expelled, and I don't even know what for. I have no idea what I took." 

Sergio stared at him for a moment. He straightened him up and led him over to the bed. Recognizing it as Andres's room, he quickly sent a text about taking it over. Locked the door. Cesc was sitting up straight, eyes wide, seeing something beyond this world. Orange. Something plucking the life off his bones. Something funny and something twisted. 

Sergio leaned over to pull the blankets over him. "Be quiet," he said, though Cesc wasn't speaking. Sergio's voice sounded distant to his own ears. Tucking his father in and saying goodnight. Goodnight. 

Cesc was shaking his head. "This isn't for him, you know. I didn't do any of this for him. If tomorrow I wake up and I'm puking up blood and this is all as bad as I fear, it won't be for him. I don't do this shit for him. He's just collateral damage. Or maybe I am." 

Sergio leaned forward, rested his head on Cesc's chest. "Shut up," he said. "My head is spinning. You're going to be fine, and if you're not, I'll follow you to the grave, alright? Does that make you happy?" 

"Yes. Isn't that terrible? Aren't the things that make me happy so terrible?" 

Sergio wrinkled his nose. He was sweating. His forehead was wet, and he was starting to form a list in his head. There were those beers in the beginning, the scotch, more scotch, but there wasn't anything after that, and he should have been-- his head was spinning. Orange spots in front of his eyes. 

\+ 

Everything was silent in the morning. Red cups were strewn everywhere. Crushed, half-full, spilled over. A few bright, shiny ones in the corner near the piano in the common room downstairs. Light was filtering in. Costumes that had once been glamorous were now tacky. 

As the first few began to wake up, they began to clean. More and more. A silent army, they worked together. A few broke off to shower, too hungover or dead tired to begin any kind of conversation. The storm of the shower water against the tiles was the only sound besides the crinkling of cups, the rustling of trash bags. Someone had turned off the music long ago. 

More often than not, the party clean-up was left to the host, his friends, and the small group of people who used that opportunity to affirm their social status, but that morning there was something different in the air. A question lingered-- what have we done? An aching tiredness was spreading, a terrible curiosity, a hollow feeling of being imprisoned. Until, finally, someone whispered at the sink as she wiped her face clean of makeup, "I think someone spiked the drinks." 

It spread like wildfire, haunting the exhausted hallways. The zombies whispered, moving back and forth, halfway to anger, halfway to pleasantly surprised. A sense of camaraderie developed; they worked in shifts: shower, clean, remove the evidence. 

Irina, ever-privy to certain classified information, found the room in which Sergio was staying and rapped insistently on the door, trash bag in hand. She was leading a group of cleaners. She had showered early. Fresh-faced, beautiful even with circles under her eyes, she quickly relayed the story to a crazed looking Sergio. 

"Jesus," he said. "My head is pounding. Where are the showers?" 

She pointed, glancing up and down his body, not because of any kind of sexual interest, but because his physical decay from the previous night was rather obvious and rather fascinating. 

"How are you totally fine?" 

"Russian," she said simply. "We're made of tougher stuff." 

"Yeah, the drinks were all spiked. I really doubt you're made of stuff that strong." 

She smiled. Barefoot, a thin, tinkling silver chain around her ankle and a tiny tattoo beneath it. "I'm a model, Sergio. I look how I want to look. If you see me looking hungover, it is only because I want you to see me that way. You understand?" She reached forward to adjust his collar. "Now, you, on the other hand, are an open book." 

He rolled his eyes, too tired to argue. "Fine," he said irritably. "Read me then because I've fucking forgotten how." 

She laughed, high and light and painful to his ears. She adjusted the trash bag from one hand to the other. "Everyone around here is so miserable. You're young, you're handsome, you're wealthy, and yet you cry about not understanding yourself." She poked his cheek, enjoying the way he winced, head pounding. "I enjoy what I do not understand. It means there's more ahead of me." 

"Congratu-fucking-lations." He pushed the trash bag out of his path and started towards the communal bathrooms. Damn Andres and his willingness to live in a junior suite. "Enjoy your proverbs and your uncertainty. I'm going to take a hot shower." 

But before he could round the corner, another shape shifted beside him, unsteady, uncertain, looking dead tired and still half in what was meant to be a Halloween costume. He was paler than normal, looking sickly in a way that made Sergio queasy to think about. 

Hair unkempt and clothes untidy, Iker shuffled into view. He cleared his throat twice before-- "I spent all night on the train. I just wanted to..." 

He waited until Irina waltzed down the hallway to Javi's room. There was a long silence, and Sergio rubbed his eyes, vision blurring. Iker's words came back to him like his insides were being burned out. 

He frowned, groggy and hurt. Iker's eyes narrowed with confusion and regret, and he stepped forward to look at the other got closer. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Someone spiked the drinks. So we're all a little fucked up. Cesc is sleeping in there." He didn't look at Iker. The flashbacks to his childhood, Iker's voice in his ear like his father's-- they had blunted his outrage. He normally would have gotten into a fight with Iker, yelled at him, pushed him; he was stupid and blind before. This was the only feeling that should have existed, this paralysis of the senses. He couldn't have shouted even if he wanted to. 

Iker shifted at Cesc's name, but that wasn't why he was there. He swallowed past the catch in his throat. 

"Sergio," he said, and the other boy finally looked up, eyes focusing slowly but surely. "I wanted to apologize for everything I said last night." 

Sergio traced the tattoo on his wrist. "Honestly, I blocked out half of it because my head was going all--" He broke off and made a face. "It felt like a nightmare." 

"And I was part of it." A muscle jumped in his jaw, and his eyes fluttered closed for half a second. "What I said was inexcusable. It is never okay for me to speak to you like that." 

Sergio backed into the wall again, smiling gently. Iker had never seen him look so-- Maybe back when they were younger, and he was just waking up next to Cristiano. Iker remembered having to wake them up numerous times, seeing how they looked asleep beside each other, and then the shift back into reality. First, Cristiano. He woke with a certain gentleness which quickly developed harsh edges; Sergio always took longer to pretend. His eyes opened, he smiled; that window of opportunity and bliss was his entire world until he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and realized his world would not fit in that window. But this was how they were, fated to pretend. 

"Did you really spend the night on the train just so you could come and apologize? Or did you come to visit Cesc, and you felt like you needed to fix this with me first?" 

Some wall left Iker's eyes. Without pretension, he took a step closer and said, "I have no business coming here for Cesc. He and I are finished in every way. I came to apologize to you. I thought about what I said, and I couldn't leave it like that." 

Sergio nodded. Finality. Harsh as Iker had been, it wasn't like last year. He wasn't the same boy who would rush off in a huff without realizing his mistakes. He had been humbled. By his past mistakes and by the events of the night before. 

"It's okay," he said slowly, almost shyly. Hesitant to reveal this change to Iker, he bit his lip, nearly smiled at the newfound depth within himself. "Look, I should shower, but we can grab some coffee-- breakfast for you, if you want. We can talk then." 

Iker's eyebrows shot up slightly at the quick, direct manner in which Sergio had accepted his apology. "Yes," he said quickly. Then, earnestly, "Please." 

Sergio continued on to the showers, wary to return to his room in case some half-naked couple was still passed out on his dirty sheets. It had been awhile since he'd had to use the communal bathrooms, and he didn't miss the slippery floors or the mirrors that steamed up too quickly, but he would manage. 

At the end of the hallway, he turned back around. "Iker," he said, and Iker turned around, tearing his eyes from the closed door that hid Cesc from his view. "Do me a favor?" 

Iker nodded. Anything. 

"Find Cris?" He hesitated, hand on the door. "There are things I can't say to him. There are things that I mean. Last night was rough, and I mean them more than ever." 

Iker looked away momentarily, as if he shouldn't be listening, as if he was overhearing something he didn't already accept as the fundamental thread that connected his two friends. 

"Okay," he said. "Alright." 

Sergio nodded and stepped inside. Fernando-- naturally, it had to be him; just this morning's plague of humiliation and discomfort-- was shaving at the sink. 

"Oh," he said. "Good. It's you." Sarcastic and bitter, he threw Sergio a nasty expression, tapping his razor against the edge of the sink. 

Wincing, he remembered his carelessness the night before. He didn't regret his words; his words were swift and true, and he certainly didn't regret telling Fernando off for abandoning Leo. He regretted that feeling as he walked away, that complete and utter intense indifference that raked his insides like a caged animal. 

"Got nothing to say?" 

"I'm here to shower," Sergio said snidely. "Not to have a therapy session." 

"Speaking of things you desperately need." His eyes traveled up and down Sergio's body like he was staring at a pile of rotting food. His lip curled with disgust. "Therapy and a shower make top of the list." 

Sergio rolled his eyes and walked towards the showers, shedding his clothing. Fernando returned to shaving. 

"You know, Iker came to visit for the weekend. Hopefully for Monday and Tuesday too." He switched on the shower and looked over his shoulder; Fernando was very focused on shaving. "If you want to take a break from being a dick, you can always go say hello." 

He tested the water, stepped inside. Fernando didn't answer, and by the time Sergio had finished showering, the other boy was gone. 

\+ 

Iker and Cristiano were walking along one of the running paths through the school. Cristiano was hungover and exhausted. Having relayed the evening's activities on their way out of the dorm, he was patiently listening to Iker's version of events. 

They were quiet for awhile, after everything had been said and done. Iker had gotten to the part where he apologized to Sergio. Then, after this stretch of silence: 

"He wanted me to tell you what he never can. And as much as I'm rooting for the two of you..." He shook his head. "That's the problem with you two. You know this truth so thoroughly that you never say it aloud, but you don't seem to grasp the fact that words have power. In saying this, in defining this-- in giving this concept some weight in reality..." 

"It will actually become real. And you think that's not what we're trying to avoid?" 

Iker wouldn't look at him. "I think you're running from different things." 

Cristiano shrugged as if it didn't really matter. And in a way, it didn't. Didn't it just matter that they were running? 

"I don't know how to get away now. Leo's gone. He's not going to want to talk to me anymore." He smiled, feeling foolish. "You know, when I needed to escape from everything, or to think, or to find some meaning in nothing, he was the friend I would go to." 

"Not me?" Iker joked quietly. "I'm wounded." 

Cristiano nudged his hip. "Don't." 

They walked a little while longer; Iker thought about the times he would go running with Cesc, slowing his steps down to keep pace with the clumsy, slow younger boy. Soft eyes, harsh shoulder blades, and that-- He bit the inside of his cheek. 

"You know, he's changed." 

"Leo?" 

"Sergio. I came here to apologize, and he didn't even scream at me or anything." 

"Was it the drugs?" 

Iker shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I think it's just him." 

"You think I should leave it alone then?" 

"I think you ask for my opinion on things you know you can answer for yourself." 

Cristiano smiled at that. He already knew the answer, had known it for as long as he had known himself, but sometimes he liked to ask around, just to see if there was the possibility of something else in his future. 

"I'm going to leave at the end of the year," he said. "And I'm not going to speak to anyone from here ever again." 

"I know," Iker said, watching him. 

"And it's not because I'm going to forget where I came from. It's just that--" He struggled. "People can't know anything about me. They can't..." He drifted off, laughed under his breath. "They can't get the password to Karim's blog and find out who I am. They can't see how I am around Sergio. Weakness-- they can't see that." 

Iker nodded silently. They were going down different paths now-- not literally of course-- and Cristiano was meant for football just as Iker was bred for Ivy League pretension. 

They reached the tennis courts. Isco was playing someone, brandishing his racket like he'd never seen one before. They watched for a moment, turned around to head back down to school. 

"So what are you doing about Cesc anyway?" 

"Don't," Iker said. "If you want me to be honest with you about him, I will be. If the world was destroyed ten thousand times over and reborn, in each new reality, I would want him." 

There was more he did not say: My ashes would want his ashes. My intangible elements would want to take root in reality so I could understand myself in relation to him. What am I alone? Ashes, ashes. What am I next to him? A pile of redistributed matter; flames now. 

"What about this one?" Cristiano asked thoughtfully. Iker rarely opened up unless he was horribly upset or horribly set on convincing himself of something. Cristiano thought perhaps today it was a combination. 

"This what?" He was lost in his thoughts, glassy-eyed. 

"This reality-- What about this reality?" 

"Oh," Iker said, as if he hadn't even considered it. "Well nothing seems to work in this one, does it?" 

\+ 

They ended up not meeting until lunch. By the time Cristiano and Iker finished their lunch, they were all caught up on each other's lives; Sergio sat down across from them feeling as though they were complete without him. 

"Hey," he said, picking apart his muffin. 

"Hey," Cristiano said, and they exchanged a look. They would be normal. They would force normal if they had to. 

Iker leaned across the table and scrubbed at a smudge on Sergio's cheek. "I thought you just took a shower. How are you already dirty?" 

"Shut up," Sergio groaned. "My sock fell under the bed while I was trying to transport your dumb ex-boyfriend back to his room." 

"Is he not awake yet?" Cristiano asked, looking concerned. 

"Oh, no. He was. He was just being lazy." 

Cristiano and Sergio laughed, snorting into their palms like the carefree boys whose identities they liked to assume. Iker remained silent, picking at his vegetables. 

Sergio rummaged through his bag. "Fuck. I was going to bring my essay for you to look over, Iker. But I left it in my room. Gimme a sec?" 

Iker nodded, the disquiet heavy on his mind. 

Sergio took the stairs two at a time, wondering how on earth he was going to explain to Iker that he was really sorry his essay was really shitty and only halfway done, but he just didn't know what to write about and everything about it seemed cheesy and overly self-aware in a way that terrified him. 

He busted the door open with a sharp kick, praying that no one was passed out on the bed still. Forcing himself to peer around the door, he found the room empty but reeking of alcohol. Almost cheerful he was so relieved, he headed straight for his backpack where the half-draft must have been since two Thursdays ago. 

The door opened again, and he jumped, cussing loudly into his hand. "Fucking. Jesus. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with you, Cris?" 

He looked determined, wide-eyed. "What? Oh. No, sorry. I just. Uh, look, Fernando stopped by the table to catch up with Iker, and I just kind of assumed he didn't want me there. I thought you might need help searching." 

"Oh." He dropped the backpack and stood up. 

They stared at each other for a moment, both remembering the drunken stumble. Hadn't they both, at some point, promised themselves that they would not be this way again? Wasn't a different kind of pain preferable? 

The wide-eyed, hesitant expression dropped from Cristiano's features. He was normal again; determined, strong, unwavering. 

"We didn't finish what we started last night," he said. 

Burn as you go? No, he wasn't out to hurt anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A MESS. ALL THESE CHAPTERS ARE A MESS. All I can do is apologize and keep making things more dramatic and more confusing. Where's Xabi? We may never know.


	12. Truth is a Dirty Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****** I have winter break coming soon, so you can put your requests in the comments or message me on tumblr or twitter. details in the end notes.

It wasn't like the other times. It was a hard, scrambling kind of atonement. Sergio's eyes fell shut when the aching familiarity returned to his bones. He knew this boy, this body; where to pepper kisses and how to twist his fingers. Breathless in the middle of the day, they were aware of the fire they were manipulating. 

And afterwards, they were there in the bed like someone had killed them, like they would never move again. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, panting; darkness and solitude. No speaking but the reckless adoration that spills forth like a bloody waterfall. Everyone knows if he says it during sex, he doesn't mean it; if he tells you he loves you, it doesn't mean a thing. 

Sergio sat up, found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror across the room. Lips pink and swollen, a hickey on his neck, eyes bright with something he couldn't define. People are so much more beautiful after being kissed. Beautiful and messy, he looked like he had been thrown into a storm. 

His mind was blank with bliss for a moment, and then. What just happened? What was that loss that he felt? Some kind of absence in his chest, some kind of fear. A bone-rattling consistency of heartbreak, the acknowledgement that they were a circle, and the journey back to the beginning. 

Then, Cristiano opened his eyes. He'd had them closed for so long Sergio thought he was sleeping. His hand was resting beside his face on the pillow so loosely, so without the tension and control that normally inhabited his body. His hand curled into a loose fist. 

Sergio opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wanted to ask what this was, if they should clean up-- physically, but also "should we clean this mess up? Should we never speak again?" He was beaten to breaking the silence. 

"Do you think Iker is wondering where we are?" His voice was hoarse. 

Sergio shook his head. "Iker's smart. He'll have figured it out by now." 

Cristiano laughed, sharp and cold. He was always so alien afterwards, sometimes warm and sometimes slick like ice, freezing cold and bitterly amused at the distance he created between them. 

"Have we figured it out yet?" 

Sergio looked around slowly. The room was different now. His hands were different now. Paler than normal, blue veins shooting through. Something about that room and what they had done seemed foreign. Skin against skin was familiar and welcome, but looking at each other afterward was like looking into a bottomless pit: Mile after mile of indescribable darkness; year after year of undiagnosable feeling. 

"No," Sergio answered finally. "But this feels different." 

Cristiano swept his comment away with a small wave of his hand. "I keep coming back to you," he said. 

That was enough. Just for him to finally admit that some colossal, ill-intentioned magnet targeted him too, just for him to finally admit that Sergio was not alone in his foolishness-- that was enough. It felt like it was them against the world again. If they could not love, they would conquer. 

"What does it all mean though? You came here, and you wanted to finish things. What did you want to finish? What is there to finish? I feel so much for you, and you look at me like I mean so little. I'm not sure when our friendship broke down, but we haven't been friends for awhile. We haven't been--" He caught sight of himself in the mirror again and broke off. "What are we anyway." 

"We're nothing," Cristiano said slowly, calculatingly. Sergio blinked, and Cristiano sat up in a hurry, reaching out to press his fingers into Sergio's skin. 

"That's not what I meant," he said quickly. "I meant that we're stuck somewhere north of friendship. Too much to be friends, too little to be in a relationship." He paused. "Too little because we lack the maturity... I. I lack the maturity." 

Sergio was quiet, but there was an intense heartache developing in his throat, in his stomach, between his ribs and all down his spine. Possessed by a need for the unattainable, he was Tantalus in his prison. Dying and starving and reaching for something that could not be reached. 

"Not," Cristiano added quietly, "For lack of feeling." 

Sergio let out a sigh of relief, and he looked away. Shutting his eyes to collect himself, trying to breathe quietly, to think quietly. Trying to be a mystery to match the boy beside him. They were similar in many respects, but Cristiano was an enigma, and Sergio was an open book. Easy to read, easy to open. Cristiano was the suave playboy, and Sergio was the sloppy slut. 

A shame pervaded his being that made him turn away. Cristiano's talk of feeling made him happy, exhausted, inadequate. 

"What about Leo," he said after a long time, thinking if anyone deserved good and kind and complicated, it was that jumble of angst and good intentions.

"What about him," Cristiano mumbled, looking down. "I'm not good enough. I'm always doing shit he doesn't approve of. It's not like there's a competition between the two of you. I like you, and I like him." 

"Is that possible though? Don't you have to kill your feelings for one to truly care for another?" 

"I don't think so," he said thoughtfully. "You still care for Fernando, don't you? Even if it's not the same thing you once felt, there's a history there that can't be erased." A quick glance up to confirm what he was saying. "Just like there's a history between us that can't be erased." 

"Obviously." Sergio gestured to the bed, their nakedness. His thoughts of Fernando were a million miles away. Why was it, he wondered, that he could completely separate himself from Fernando but Cristiano could not entirely clear his mind of Leo? Perhaps it was simply not in his nature to forget. 

Cristiano was quiet for a long time; he was prone to periods of silence when he was deep in thought. He never just spat out what he was thinking. Whatever was on Sergio's mind made it to his mouth, but Cristiano had to manipulate every feeling, consider every word, weigh them evenly in both hands-- was it worth it to speak? 

Finally, he decided that it was. "I'm leaving at the end of the year," he said very plainly. "I feel like I'm meant for this, you know? Not because of fate or whatever, but just because I'm good at this. Football is the only thing in my life that works, that fits. The only thing where I can look at the pitch and the ball and know that absolutely everything fits." 

"I know." He wanted to say something encouraging like "I see that too. You are meant for this. You'll be great. You'll be perfect." He didn't speak. 

"So you know why I can't just jump into this thing. I'm leaving at the end of the year. It wouldn't make sense." 

Sergio bit the inside of his cheek hard. He fell for it every time. The look in his eyes, the feel of his skin, the weightlessness and the removal from reality-- every time he fooled himself into thinking these things made a difference, and every time he was left with sticky sheets and vulgar, dirty truth. 

Cristiano looked at the door like he would leave soon. "But, look," he said, sighing, "I was thinking maybe we could go to dinner or a movie or a game or something. Maybe we could-- I don't know. I don't know how this is supposed to work." 

Sergio looked up at him like he was crazy. "What?" He asked, startled. 

"I..." He hesitated. "I was asking you out." The other boy was silent, and he looked away. "I mean, you don't have to. I'm not saying that just because we slept together means that we have to-- I mean, we've done this plenty of times before, and we didn't go out those times-- I'm leaving anyway, so what's the point? You--" 

"Yeah," Sergio cut in loudly. 

"What?" 

"Yeah, there is no point, but I was thinking we could see that new movie with the aliens and shit." He fiddled with the covers nervously. 

Cristiano looked at him for second. "This solves nothing," he said cautiously. 

"Are you trying to warn me?" 

"Well, I figured, I never did before--" 

"I'll survive," Sergio said, pushing himself off the bed. "Like you said, you never warned me before and somehow I'm still here." 

He pulled on his pants, tugged on a dirty t-shirt, ran his fingers through his hair. He threw Cristiano's clothes onto the bed. 

"I can't believe we're doing this," he said. "I think some part of me will always be pissed at you for all the shit you've pulled. For forgetting me and all that." He bit the inside of his cheek again until he tastes blood. 

Cristiano dressed in silence across the room. Then, as he approached the door, "I never forgot you. You were always in the back of my mind." 

"That's the thing," said Sergio tiredly as he moved to open the door. They were out in the hallway, deserted. Hauntingly quiet. As if nothing had ever moved and would never move again. 

"What is?" 

"You were always on my mind, never a second priority, never on the back burner. We're unhappy apart, and we're unhappy together." He looked down at his hands. "Jesus. I'm starting to sound like you." 

"Told you." He looked like he regretted everything earlier. The reverence in even their sloppiest kisses did not touch their words. 

Sergio rubbed his eyes. "God. I'm tired." 

"Maybe you should sleep." 

"Maybe I should quit talking to you," he snapped. "This pisses me off so much. Four fucking years of pining for you, and finally you ask me out, and I want to go, but I don't know how to get past the fact that you're so cynical, and you're so convinced this is going to fail that-- I mean, how can it work? You're just stuck on this idea that we're doomed-- or whatever." 

Something in Cristiano's expression shifted, and his jaw tightened. "Maybe you should sleep," he repeated, and he turned to walk away. 

"Cris." 

He stopped. "Eight," he said, looking over his shoulder. 

"Eight what?" 

"Eight o'clock." His features softened. "It's when the movie is playing." 

\+ 

Cristiano sat down across from Iker. He and Fernando were speaking animatedly about the party the night before, the excitement of the girls being on campus, and the latest Atleti game-- Fernando was a fan, and Iker liked to keep tabs on the rivals. 

Fernando finished what he was saying and, with a glance in Cristiano's attention, casually excused himself, claiming he had left some of his books in the library. "But it's always good to see you, Iker," he added as he left. 

Iker raised his eyebrows at Cristiano. "Thought you two would have patched things up by now." 

"No, and that's not likely to happen anytime soon." He picked at the lemon scone on Iker's plate. "Sergio and I are going to a movie." 

"Okay," Iker said, not understanding. "So what?  
You go to movies all the time. Are you inviting me--" He broke off, wheels turning. "You mean...like a date." 

Cristiano looked uneasy. "I wish you wouldn't say it like that. It makes me physically ill to think about." 

"It makes you physically ill to think about dating Sergio?" 

"No." He sounded miserable. "I don't know. We sort of fought, but I told him eight o'clock tonight." 

"Oh, good," he said, unconcerned. Tumultuous was the rhythm. "Then you guys can come to the game before with me. I told some of the guys I'd be there." 

"The game?" 

Iker slapped his hand away from the plate. "Get your own fucking food? The rec game." 

"Oh, no," he said simply, leaning back. "Nope. Leo is going to be there." 

Iker sighed patiently. "And since when are you avoiding Leo?" 

"Since he saw me and Sergio making out and raced out of there like--" 

"Like you'd hurt him," Iker added casually. He looked older now, wiser, but there was something beneath his steady gaze, some fissure in the barrier behind his eyes that gave the whole story: prone to madness, obsessed with control. 

The cafeteria door opened again just as Cristiano was about to reply, but when he saw the stony tranquility that passed over Iker's features, he turned to see who had opened the door, knowing the answer even before he moved. 

Cesc was walking over to the cereal, chatting happily at Gerard's side. His hair was messy and wavy, slightly longer than when Iker had seen him last, but it wasn't frighteningly close to his shoulders as it had been freshman year. He looked fresh, clean. Happy. 

He poured himself a huge bowl, and Gerard said something that made him laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he bent to clutch his ribs. When he devoted himself completely to a laugh, it was beautiful to see, like watching someone skydive. 

"Okay, I'm not the only one with avoidance issues," Cristiano muttered under his breath, turning back around to see Iker hiding his face from view with one of the cafeterias chic menus. 

"Don't fuck up your date tonight," Iker taunted cruelly. He winced. "Okay." Putting the menu down, he shook his head. "Yeah. This isn't me, okay?" 

They teased each other all the time, but Iker's voice had taken on a new intensity; he was close to breaking point. 

"No, yeah. I know." Cristiano shifted uneasily. 

"No, yeah?" He repeated with some measure of pity, regaining control. "You're really nervous for this thing, aren't you?" 

Cristiano shrugged. "Want to go outside? Play some football?" 

Iker hesitated. His lips were a firm line. "I'd love to, but I think I need to take care of some things first. Just while I'm here. Before I have to get back, you know?" 

He nodded. "I'll be in the library working on my project for history then. Find me after and tell me how it goes?" 

"Sure." 

Cristiano clapped Iker on the back and headed off. 

Iker turned fully in his chair to locate Cesc again. He and Gerard were sitting there at the table next to the cereal. Iker remembered him talking a long, long time ago about how that table was his favorite because he could easily smell the kitchen. "The best is when they bake those cinnamon rolls, and you can just taste them from--" He had broken off then and looked mournfully at Iker. "Now I need one. I need one right now." And they'd had to sneak off campus to find a grocery store that had cinnamon rolls at 12:30 in the morning. 

Just then, just as Iker was remembering the way Cesc had pressed their hands together when they crossed the street in the dark, Cesc looked up and choked on his cereal. 

The fact that Gerard didn't even look up when Cesc was sputtering through his cornflakes was slightly disturbing to Iker, not because he doubted Gerard's attention span or care, but because he was acting as though Cesc regularly choked on things with that wildly surprised expression, like he was just now waking up even though he'd been walking and talking for hours. 

Iker half-raised his hand in greeting, and Cesc--adorably, incredibly-- checked behind him. When he found no one there that Iker could possibly be waving to, he was forced to acknowledge that the greeting was intended for him. He frowned into his spoon. 

He sat there for a moment longer, just glaring at his bowl of cereal like it had wronged him recently. Then, he touched Gerard's arm gently and said something. Gerard jerked around to find Iker, and Cesc pulled him back around, speaking rapidly and intensely. The other boy nodded, and Cesc let go of the front of his shirt. He picked up his bowl, popped the spoon into his mouth, and walked towards Iker's table. 

"The hell are you doing here," he mumbled around the spoon as he sat down, glaring distrustfully at the other boy. 

"I came to see Sergio." His gaze was unwavering, drilling right over Cesc as if he was checking over a valuable object he had lent to a friend. There was nothing romantic about it; He was checking for damage. 

"Awesome." He was sulking over his bowl, face scrunched up and resting in his palm. "When do you leave?" 

"Don't know. Class is canceled Monday, thank god, because my professor's father passed away, so--" 

"Passed away," Cesc repeated, wrinkling his nose. "I've never understood that. If something is dead, why don't you just call it what it is. He didn't pass anywhere or anything as far as I'm concerned unless you count it as passing through the layers of dirt when they bury your corpse." 

Iker raised an eyebrow. "Have you been reading too much Poe again?" 

Cesc's glare intensified. "I like Poe." 

"You like being an angst-ridden sixteen-year-old," Iker muttered, rolling his eyes harmlessly. 

"And you like patronizing me," he returned. For a moment, he looked bold, older than his years; his cheekbones were sharper, eyes more bitter. Just as Iker was beginning to shrink away, Cesc shoveled a spoonful of cereal in his mouth and, milk dripping down his chin, ruined the effect. 

Despite himself, despite his plans to handle things maturely and without feeling, Iker grinned. He felt like a wolf bearing down on the sacrificial lamb. But that lamb was meant for something better; it was meant for an altar and a reverent fire; it wasn't meant for the flash of teeth around its neck, blood pulsing, heart pumping it faster towards death. 

Cesc blinked at him slowly, like Iker's smile had stunned him into silence. His brow furrowed, eyes hardened, mouth formed a firm little line. 

"You can't do this," he said finally. He looked at Iker; then, less sure of himself, "You can't look at me like I'm a challenge, and you can't look at me like I'm the next person you're going to save." 

Iker looked away hurriedly. "What are you doing over break?" He was very good at avoiding things when he set his mind to it. 

"Probably going to spend it with my family. My sister." He offered Iker a (now) rare smile. 

Iker hesitated. "And Unai? What is he doing?"

Cesc had a mouthful of cereal, but he lazily tried to mumble around it, shrugging his shoulders and narrowing his eyes. He crunched the cereal, swallowed. "Shouldn't you know what your brother is doing for the holidays?" 

"You see him more, and lately I haven't been getting the calls I normally do." They were polite, distant, full of how-are-yous and did-you-see-the-latest-episode-of-that-show-you-like, not Unai's characteristic bundle of cynicism and impetuosity.

Cesc frowned. "I don't talk to him. I don't see him. He's disappeared." Iker's eyes were stony. Betrayed, Cesc thought. "He's avoiding me." 

(Iker bit his lip, and he remembered that time Unai broke something in the dining room, and Iker took the blame, and his dad pushed the table across the room as he raged. Iker, pinned against the wall, met Unai's eyes across the room, struggling with both hands to push the table back and release himself. Unai, soft-eyed for once in his life, turned and fled. 

Afterwards, his father had apologized and told him once more of Iker's life plan, explaining "this is why I'm cruel to you." Destined for greatness, you must be pushed to nothing first. 

Only after nodding his head and affirming the apology, resisting the urge to clutch his bruised abdomen-- only then did he stumble clumsily up the stairs to Unai's room. He knocked softly on the door, pretending he didn't hear Unai's quiet crying into a pillow. 

"Are you alright?" He asked, sitting on the bed, putting a hand on his back and hating the tremors. 

Unai ignored him, and the words only made him cry harder because that was his punishment. That heavy imprisonment against the wall was meant for him, but Iker had taken the blame and his chains. Unai could never forgive himself for putting Iker through pain, just as Iker could never forgive himself for passing up an opportunity to spare Unai some torture. 

They didn't speak for days afterward. Iker was showering in the morning, and Unai stared at the bruises, eyes hollow, some quickening of his pulse. Guilt ate his tongue, and the silence extended until a dinner party with family. Iker pulled him into the nearest empty room-- some storage contraption they never used, too large to be a broom closet and too small to be a guest bedroom. 

"Unai," he said, "why aren't you speaking to me?" He gave a fake, hushed laugh. "You're the only person I've got in this house." 

He avoided Iker's eyes until Iker said "please" very quietly, and that broke him down. "This is my fault," he said, eyes on the door. They would be interrupted any second. "This is all my fault. You took the blame, and I walked away. I was too weak to even stay there and defend you." 

Iker put his hand behind Unai's head at the nape of his neck. "You," he said fiercely, "are a thousand times braver than I am. You've put up with enough from Dad. It's my duty to defend you, so when I defend you--" 

Unai opened his mouth to protest, but Iker silenced him with a look and another quiet "no, please." 

"When I defend you and I suffer because of it, it's my choice, do you understand?" His fingers felt hot at the back of Unai's neck. 

Unai nodded, thinking about the bruises. "Please don't defend me," he said. "It's worse when you do. Just let me take it from him. I can take the yelling." 

"What they yell at you is ten times worse than what they yell at me. Don't be stupid." 

"It's worse," Unai said, panicking at the sound of footsteps, his voice picking up. "Watching you hurt because of me--" The roughness was back in his voice. "It's so much worse than hearing what Dad--" He said the word with a pause and some difficulty. "-- has to say." 

"Unai," Iker said again, and his fingers curled at the nape of his brother's neck. 

Footsteps, a light flicking on in the hallway, a door opening. "What are you two doing in here? Everyone is ready to eat.") 

"Iker," Cesc was saying, snapping his fingers. He looked annoyed. "Did you just fall asleep with your eyes open?" 

"No," he said, "I was thinking." 

"Can I ask what about?" 

"You can ask." 

Cesc almost smiled. "Just as closed off as always. Typical Iker." He said it the way someone would speak right before tapping a younger person's nose. 

Iker looked at him, and there was another flood of memories. Cesc waking up in the morning, sitting in the back of a cab with him, fingers pressed against the misty windows, speaking aimlessly about the fog. 

"Yeah, well. Are you coming to the game tonight?" 

"Yeah, I figured I have nothing better to do. Might as well." 

He was picturing Unai and Cesc in a room, quiet. Longing. He loved them too much for it to hurt as much as it probably should have. Sometimes he wondered if something was wrong with him. He should be mad at his brother; his brother should have no place in his relationship. There was a line drawn somewhere that he just couldn't find. 

He bit his cheek until he could erase the image. "There's a thing later," Iker said. "Tonight after the game, at like 10:30. Cris told me about it this morning. Someone bought a ton of sparklers and shit, so they're going to give the girls a good send-off. I guess their building got repaired or whatever." 

"Are you inviting me?" He didn't trust Iker, would never dare to be that stupid again, but his head wasn't screwed on right when he looked at Iker. It was like he fell out of himself for a little while. 

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't think I should. After everything." 

"After everything," he repeated quietly, "Don't you think both of us deserve a little peace." He had planned on hating Iker, but seeing him there and sorry and beautiful, he found that he didn't have it in him. 

"I'm not sure what would be peaceful about staying away from you." 

Cesc narrowed his eyes. "Look. Either we're friends or we're not. I'm going to see you sometimes, and I'm going to hear you mentioned. I'm not going to change schools because you might sometimes be around." 

Iker coughed out a laugh. "Please. Changing schools. Isn't that a bit extreme." 

He shrugged in that I'm-about-to-smile way that he had. "I texted my sister this morning: Iker is here, so either I'm changing schools or dying. You know what she told me?" He waited for Iker to politely shake his head. "She told me, Cesc, we've already got your plot picked out next to Grandma's. So I said fine, she'd better give me a good service." 

"Well, at least you're not being dramatic about it," Iker remarked good-naturedly. 

"Blame it on all the Poe I've been reading," he returned evenly. 

Iker smiled, and he looked down at the table, thinking about that time in the kitchen with the broken plates and Cesc's insistence for the truth. There was a rush of emotion, like a plane taking off. His stomach leaping or dropping or doing somersaults. That kind of feeling couldn't be erased, but it certainly could fade-- he considered this hopefully. His feeling was warped now, but unfortunately not faded. 

"So friends," he said. "How's this going to work?" 

Cesc's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll see you tonight." 

\+ 

The movie was fine. It was just fine. Sergio's hand was sitting there on the armrest, and Cristiano had never been the sort to be extraordinarily nervous for dates. He was preoccupied with being perfect, but it wasn't nervousness that settled in his bones. Now it was a dizzying combination of the two of them, and he could hardly enjoy the aliens dying onscreen with the way he kept checking to see if Sergio was having a good time. 

Sergio was completely captivated by the subpar special effects, meaningless stab at a plot, and lazy acting, but that was to be expected. If it had blood and some uplifting music that fooled him into thinking blood was justice, it was exactly Sergio's sort of movie. 

Afterward, they stalled in the lobby for a little while. Marcelo and his girlfriend were out on a date, going to some romantic comedy that Marcelo was excited to see. Clarice, always in good spirits, was equally thrilled with the choice. They were exhaustingly positive about everything, so positive that by the time the conversation ended and they went off to their movie, Cristiano and Sergio were drained. 

They took a SEPTA bus back to school, riding it quietly, happily anonymous in the back. They were quiet on the way to meet Iker too, picking their way through the forest at night. 

"We should have taken the running path," Cristiano said, slapping at a low-hanging branch. "This shortcut kind of blows." 

"Shut up. I told you, they were patrolling the running path last week, and they would have confiscated our sparklers." 

Cristiano shoved them further down in his jacket, hissing, "This is a stupid idea. We should have just gone to the movie and gone to bed." 

Sergio stopped. Cristiano could see the tennis courts over his head, and he bit his lip, wishing he could have looked up a moment earlier and not opened his mouth to complain. 

Sergio looked like he wanted to say something, but Iker jogged over to them from the courts, unlit sparkler in one hand.

"Thanks for ditching me, assholes." He looked behind them. "And nice shortcut." 

Cristiano looked past Sergio. "We stayed for a little bit at the game. We just checked out earlier than we promised. It wasn't ditching." 

Iker's eyes narrowed, and under the moonlight, he looked ghostly pale. "Please. You left when Leo scored." 

Cristiano shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the other boy's name. "Yeah, so?" 

"He scored in the fifteenth minute, Cris." 

Cristiano rolled his eyes and strode forward towards the pulsing of the music, stopping short when he reached the tennis court, pulled open the door, and stepped partly inside. The black tarp that wrapped around the outside of the tennis court gate was thick and protective. It was the perfect place to have a neon, glowing party. You couldn't see the chaos until you were already inside. 

Cesc was in the corner getting neon paint drawn on his cheeks my three girls who looked like they could each singlehandedly control a small nation. He was giggling nervously, and Cristiano turned to find Iker, staring, wishing, wanting. But not moving. 

Fabio was dancing in the middle of the tennis court with the other. He bounced against the net a few times, waving his arms wildly. Jesé and Isco were watching him, nodding their heads in time to the rhythm like they approved of his dancing but weren't brave enough just yet to join in. 

It was drizzling just then, and some of the sparklers were fizzling out, and there was a strange anxiety in Sergio's chest as he looked all around him, as if they were all going to go out, as if the rain was going to mute everything and he would never be able to light anything up ever again. 

He fumbled with his lighter a moment before holding the sparkler out, bright and ready and shooting out light. He tossed the lighter to Cristiano wordlessly as he watched his own burn out. In a moment it was nothing, and he was blinking back the light. 

Then Cristiano's was bright and furious and it seemed to last for ages before ending with the tips still burning. He watched the dying embers, trying to quiet something within himself. 

Sergio looked away, trying to find something else to focus on. The neon writing, Karim sitting in the corner with Raphael teaching him how to people-watch, Fabio still dancing and losing his footing and bouncing against the net, and someone in the corner too with a neon orange check on his cheek. He inclined his head, and Sergio half-smiled. 

Cristiano looked over his shoulder, expecting Fernando. Fernando was the only person besides Iker and himself that Cristiano knew for a fact inspired in Sergio a kind of grace. He choked on his own inhale a little when he saw Leo, face in the shadows, glowing only because of a ridiculous orange mark on his face, like some kind of claw, like some kind of wound. He looked away quickly, guilt gnawing on his insides. 

Later, Iker was loitering around the edge of the party. It had extended into the forest, rolling over the running path and into the trees beyond like a fractured snake. 

Leo was leaning against a tree, halfway part of a group of nervous party-goers, halfway in his own world. They were all talking about how it was their first time drinking, and they weren't normally wild, and they were starting to feel the effect, and-- they tripped noisily over things as they stood in place. 

Iker tugged his arm, and Leo easily slipped away without so much as a word. Turning to claim the other side of the massive oak, he raised his eyebrows apprehensively. 

Iker was quiet. Iker was very good at drawing information out of people who were normally very good at staying silent. 

"Alright, fine," Leo said without warning. "I'm a little defeated." 

"So am I," Iker admitted grimly. He remembered the car, Cesc's pale thighs; they hadn't been kissed by the sun for a long time. "Cheers." He held up his empty cup a little helplessly. 

"Is this where you give me some kind of advice." 

"Sure," Iker said, turning to watch the newest arrival stride forward, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. He was a young, heartbreaking scowl. 

"Don't ever be friends with him," he said selfishly, looking back at Leo. 

"Wasn't planning on it," he answered harshly. 

\+ 

The way home wasn't easy. They all tripped down Sergio's shortcut because he was making bold claims about it taking approximately 7.5 minutes, and the running path obviously took no less than 15. He was right, of course-- it was a brilliant shortcut except for the poison ivy he accidentally led everyone into. 

Itching and angry, they all busted into the infirmary, claiming that they were all running-- on the running path-- and the Ivy was there-- "it was just there in the middle of the path." 

"In the middle of the path?" The nurse questioned sweetly as she handed out ointment. "Are you sure you didn't accidentally step off the path?" Just as sweetly, she added, "I'm sure you wouldn't because that would be directly disobeying everything the Dean has said about your Running Path privileges." 

Everyone mumbled something about the path being difficult to see in the dark, and they returned to the dorms, glaring at Sergio. But because it was Sergio, as soon as the rashes cleared up, so did their anger. He was their king again almost immediately after, and in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, they worshiped him just as clearly and pathetically as they always did. 

Karim, after a brief period in which he wrote only nasty articles about Sergio and his "ALL CAPS INTENDED-- SERGIO RAMOS HAS NO SENSE OF DIRECTION. CAN HE GET A SENSE OF DIRECTION SO THAT WHEN I TELL HIM TO GO TO HELL, HE KNOWS EXACTLY WHERE IT IS", he eventually calmed, and the articles lost their bite, little by little. The next one was "I Still Hate Rashes, But Sergio Bought New Brown Shoes" with a detailed report of his new brown shoes. Then, "Maybe I Would Say 10/10 If He Hadn't Led Me Into Fucking Poison Ivy" and, finally, "Alright I've Forgiven Him About The Rashes Because I Have Important News To Report," and that was the article that sparked the debate at breakfast one morning. 

Things had been quiet recently. Iker left the night after the party down by the tennis courts and, since he had the good sense to be moody and mysterious and opted to walk by himself down the running path, he left without the rashes that plagued their existence. He left without a goodbye because of the chaos involving the unfortunate poison ivy, but he promised they would meet over thanksgiving break. He sent a quick text to Cesc explaining that he had to duck out, get back to school. It was cordial and polite. That was Iker. But without his cordial and polite and downright cantankerous character in their midst-- especially after having so recently been reminded of what they were missing-- things felt empty and incomplete. 

So naturally and somewhat mournfully, they turned to reading Karim's gossip column. 

Sergio was pleased that so many of the articles were about him, but after so many weeks of casual hand-holding, casual movie date nights, and absolutely no conversations in which they defined their relationship, he was also afraid that somewhere buried in all the gossip-- or, more likely, sitting like a crown jewel right on top-- would be an article about him and Cristiano. 

He almost winced when he saw it on his screen. Marcelo, with some flair, cleared his throat and read the article aloud, "After observing Subject 1 and Subject 2 over the course of the past couple weeks, it has come to my attention that a relationship has never been defined and boundaries have not been set. Now--not to lay blame on any one of the subjects because it's clear that they both possess below average intelligence, especially when it comes to the world of dating-- Subject 1 is probably the root of this problem. Remarkably suave and intensely allergic to emotions--" 

Marcelo looked up cheerfully. "Hey, Cris, I think that's you." 

Cristiano raised a finger in acknowledgement, continuing to scroll through the blog until he came to the search function. Guiltily, he shied away, resisting the urge to type in "unknown chess club boy." 

"--he seems unwilling to define what comes next for Hastings's most attractive power couple since Raul and Guti. Subject 2 is equally stupid-- probably more stupid as he recently led us all through a bunch of fucking poison ivy, in case you forgot-- but seems more interested in making things official. Passionate and loud-mouthed, certainly he won't want to remain in the dark for too long. Surely he'll insist on defining their relationship in some way? But what will Subject 1 have to say to this? He, who notoriously fucked Subject 2 for nearly the entirety of their friendship, will certainly not give in to definition now... Or will he? Perhaps it is worth mentioning that Cristiano has not been seen speaking to his Unknown Chess Club Boy for weeks now. Last contact was reported Wednesday in math class: 'Hey, can you show me how to do 13?' To which Uknown Chess Club Boy replied 'No.'" 

Fabio patted his back sympathetically. "He said no to helping you on number 13? That must have been hard." 

Cristiano rolled his eyes, and he and Sergio exchanged a long look over the table. God. This was just the worst, the absolute worst. They were going to have the conversation he was avoiding. They were having such a good time-- everything was casual, and nothing meant anything at all, so they could finally act as they normally did. 

Fabio could sense that a dark cloud had descended over the table, so after a nudge in the ribs from Marcelo, he cleared his throat and said, loudly, "So we've got a week off for break. What are ya'll doing for Thanksgiving?" 

Cristiano smiled a little at his accent as he continued. He always tried to hide it; it was the one thing about Fabio that wasn't instantly genuine. He was one of those new money families. They were trailer park trash, and then his dad won the lottery and, wisely, began investing. After falling in with "some oil guy" -- as Fabio described him, and "brutally rich, frighteningly untouchable: who's really running America?" as Time liked to put it-- they were rolling in money. It was yet another reason why he and Fabio could see eye to eye on things that others were blind to. Fabio still remembered what it was like to grow up in the dust. Sometimes Cristiano swore he was still there-- when he opened his mouth when it was just the two of them and his accent was thicker than hell. 

There was that grit to a person's voice that showed exactly where they came from. Sergio was old money, but he was entertainment money too. He was the son of a celebrity couple who were the children of celebrities who were the children of celebrities and the grandchildren of royalty. It was clear in his voice too; he was camera ready, charming and entertaining, born to absorb the attention. 

Fabio bumped his hand as he reached for the salt, asking, "What about you, Sergio? Are you going on vacation somewhere pretty?" And he said pretty like "priddy," all long and drawn out like he meant to talk a canvas into a masterpiece. 

Sergio shook his head. "Mom wants us to do a joint Thanksgiving with Iker's family." 

"Christ," Cristiano said mildly. "His father's awful around the holidays." 

"I know. We're meant to defuse tension, but I doubt that will happen. Our moms wants to have this stupid huge dinner party." He rolled his eyes and stuffed half a roll in his mouth. "You're invited, by the way. I'm supposed to pass on the invitation." 

"I'm invited?" He hesitated. He'd always been welcome on their yachts in the summer, to their vacation homes for spring break, to ski during the winter, and there was only ever the ghost of a feeling that he was out of place, but he had always been acutely aware that when they were expecting guests or when Iker's parents were throwing an important dinner party, he was always excluded. They didn't try to hurt him; they just knew where he was from. 

Sergio nodded, sensing his unease. "Yeah, course. They couldn't leave you out after they heard Real Madrid wants you." 

"Right," he said, choking on a biting laugh. "Moving up the social ladder." 

Cristiano smiled, pictured the three of them together again in their itchy suits with their heavy thoughts like a flood. He thought about Iker, who in some ways he would always love most, with his fine, proud features, how he could be an angel, and then twist himself into something unrecognizable. And Sergio, like his eyes had been ripped off a painting, laughter too real to exist. 

He caught sight of Marcelo still flipping through Karim's blog, fingers hovering over their article again: "He...will certainly not give in to definition now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say this every time, and I mean it. Thank you so much for continuing to read this awful, messy story. I appreciate and take into account every comment, and I haven't gotten a chance to answer them yet because things are so busy, but I absolutely will give you an answer. 
> 
> Please put any questions and/or comments in the comment section, and I promise I will respond ASAP, especially with Winter Break coming up. 
> 
> note: have patience with me if you request something and it's a few days late because I've been having problems with my computer and it's such a fucking nightmare. 
> 
> DETAILS ON REQUESTING:   
> you can start requesting now. you can request anything you want. You can put the details in the comment section or message me on tumblr (illarras) or twitter (illarramendis) -- remember the difficult spelling of his dumb cute name and don't spell that wrong bc many a nice person has accidentally stumbled upon my blog when they were looking for someone with little asier's name spelled wrong. they got me instead oops 
> 
> in your requests, please give me as many details as possible (pairing, situation, a feeling you associate with what you want to read, an object you want me to include in the story, realistic vs. supernatural, setting?, world? 
> 
> Thank you and good luck with your finals!!!!!!


	13. The Latest and Greatest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: violence   
> Thanksgiving/Fall Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: violence   
> See end notes for important stuff. 
> 
> *apologies for some of the italics not coming through. add emphasis in your head where you think it's necessary and we can talk about that later.

Angst sex was the greatest. It was supposed to happen at some point in a person's life otherwise they wouldn't have the supreme pleasure of waking up in a pool of sweat in a room with two friends with an embarrassing, childish, and sticky situation between the sheets.

The dream had been so vivid. They were back in the car. Sometimes it felt like they had never been anywhere else. Soft skin against leather seats, and the rocking motion that had more to do with a natural disaster than it had to do with love. Rough, angry, dirty. He wanted to mark that pale expanse of skin. He looked up in his dream. The sky; he wanted to mark that too. Put his possessive hands on everything and make it his his his and no one else's. In his dream, the boy and the sky were closely related, a thought that terrified him upon waking.

He looked around the room and thought about what a mess they were in. They were in deep, deep shit. Iker particularly. Over the past few months, Iker's father had returned to the world of football politics. He was representing a few players in some of the lower divisions, supporting them when they had no one else even looking their way. He saw something in them that awoke in him a compassion that had never been used with his own sons. As a former manager of Real Madrid, he was quite familiar with contracts, but he needed a lawyer to be sure everything was in order. And that was where Leo's father had come in.

They became unofficial business partners, and they liked to think they were saving the world, blessing football with talents it never would have seen if they hadn't been involved. So naturally, as friends and as partners, they were spending the holidays together.

Just when Iker thought the three of them were going to have a fantastic time together, the fucking Messi clan had to go and ring the doorbell, and Iker got there in time to watch the maid welcoming them. He turned to see Sergio watching Cristiano with a muscle jumping in his jaw, and Cristiano watching the doorway like it was on fire.

Leo brushed past all of them without so much as a hello. It was clear that he and his parents were in an argument. When one of them shifted towards him, he shifted away, arms crossed over his chest. His responses were clipped, voice tight when Iker's parents came to greet them. The tension lessened in his voice when he was asked about football, but then he looked at Cristiano, and it returned worse than ever.

Having Unai there did not help. There was still tension between him and Iker, though Iker didn't know why. He thought they had left things in a better way, but when Unai got out of the cab, he ignored all of them and went straight to his room, only pausing a moment to do a double take when he saw Leo sitting silently beside them in the family room.

They had moved the parents into one of the green guest bedrooms and Leo into one of the red ones. Right beside Iker's room and across from Unai, he was too close for comfort. They fell asleep uneasy that night, and that was when the dreams had started. The entire night Iker had been dreaming and waking and dreaming and hating himself. Tasting heaven and waking in a fearful sheet of sweat.

Finally, when he woke the last time around four in the morning, clutching his sheet and remembering the car, the sky, pale flesh and sharp shoulders, he heard a quiet rustling in the pale morning light.

"Are you awake?" Iker whispered. It took him a moment to understand that the rustling was not coming from the two piles of blankets beside his bed but rather from the doorway where Unai was standing in boxers with a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders.

"Iker." He was pale, whispering. Holding one of the home phones out with his free hand while the other clutched the blanket to his chest. "Will you wake Sergio up?"

"Sergio? Why?"

"He has a phone call."

"A phone call? Who the hell would call him on the house phone when he has a perfectly decent cell phone right--" He turned to point to the phone beside Sergio's head. Lit up with three missed calls flashing onscreen.

Unai shook the phone impatiently. "Dude, I'm exhausted, and you guys are lucky I picked up the phone instead of Mom or Dad."

Iker kicked Sergio who stuck an arm over his face and mumbled. He curled into a ball and breathed into the pillow. Iker kicked him again, and he struggled to a seated position, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"This better fucking be important."

"The phone," Unai insisted, waving it. There was a sound down the hallway, like their father's voice or a ghost of it, and Unai immediately ducked fully into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Sergio took the phone and slipped into Iker's private bathroom, carefully tiptoeing past Cristiano who lay awake and pretending.

Sergio lowered himself into the empty jacuzzi style tub, resting his head on the soft bath towels bearing Iker's initials. He pressed the phone to his ear and said, sleepily, "This is Sergio."

"Sergio," said the voice and, startled, he sat up. His eyes narrowed. The voice was tired and quiet and mean; insistent and ingenuine at the same time like he could hover between angry and half in love. "I shouldn't be calling right now. I don't know why I am, but the more times your phone went to voicemail, the more I needed to talk to you."

Somehow, upon hearing Sergio's voice, the feeling had not subsided but rather hollowed and faded. His feelings felt like a human being in their own right. When Sergio was away, they needed him. When he was around, they died. Fernando didn't know how he could look at that boy anymore and think anything other than, oh, this is where reality goes to die.

"It's okay," Sergio said cautiously, feeling a little guilty for how rude he'd been at the party. Once that guilt settled in, the other guilt fell into place-- the old guilt that tasted like an argument, a hurried kiss, confusion in amber eyes, and betrayal in Fernando's.

"Okay," Fernando said uncomfortably. "It was just late, you know? And I was thinking? Juan and I have been doing stuff together like movies and dinner and it just made me think of the stuff we used to do. Without warning, I was." He stopped abruptly.

Sergio's eyes were closing. The shock had worn off. He adjusted his towel-pillow. "I'm tired," he warned. "But tell me."

"Look," he said haltingly. "I thought I was in love with you, and after we broke up, I was stupid. I lacked direction. I stopped eating for fuck's sake."

Fernando was bleary-eyed, staring at the ceiling of his room at home, back for the first time in ages. Delirious from the lack of sleep and the exhilaration of seeing his parents as strangers, he was speaking without thinking. Speaking to a snake.

Sergio's hand twitched in his lap, and a feeling overcame him that he couldn't identify. "Are you stupid," he said plainly. He wanted to say no, but his exhaustion betrayed his tongue. So he said it again with more feeling.

"Yes," he admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair and focused on a dark smudge on the wall. He narrowed his eyes as if he could glare it into submission. "It's exhausting to think about everything that's happened. I'm so tired of it. Of you. Seeing you in the halls and knowing I have to hate you. Knowing you're somewhere and that I have to be pissed off."

Sergio shut his eyes. Their chaos was a lullaby. "You don't have to be pissed off," he mumbled. "We can just go back to how things were before we were together." Knowing it wasn't true, he half-smiled into his arm.

"I hated you then too." His voice sounded more distant now, as if his eyes were beginning to close. Then, without warning and nearly without feeling, "Are you and Cris going to be a thing?"

"No," he said. "I don't know how to tell you things without hurting you, and I care about that. Sometimes I care about that. At the party I didn't care because I was angry, and you were distant. I care now. I care when I remember what we were. That's why I'm telling you this now--" He struggled to keep his eyes open, gave up and mumbled into the phone, "I love him, and that is the only reason I don't love you."

Fernando closed his eyes, and a hot shame felt like wax on his chest. "I know," he said. "I knew that already."

"But isn't it better to hear it?"

"No," he lied. "Besides, now I only hate him harder. The harder you love him, the more I move the opposite way."

"Is that how I love him?" He chuckled. He was very close to the edge now. Fernando would be part of his dream. There was a very fine line between dreaming and reality when it came to Fernando, and Sergio was hovering. "Hard?" He said the word in a way that made the other boy swallow.

"Intensely. Stupidly."

"That's how I love everyone."

"Yes, but you love him slowly and patiently too. Patiently. You could never wait for me."

"This is how things are." He wanted to apologize for his honesty, for his tiredness, for the way they were talking like they had any business being friends.

"Yes," Fernando replied. It sounded final. "I'm going to sleep now."

"Okay."

"Don't hang up."

"Okay."

+

The next morning was quiet at first. Cristiano was the first to wake up. He stumbled over a sleeping Sergio with the phone still on next to his ear, walked past a snoring Iker, and tiptoed quietly down the stairs, afraid to disturb the early morning peace. In the Casillas household, it was never that way for long.

Everything felt expensive. Walking down the stairs felt expensive. The wood was shiny, old but good as new, and the chandelier in the entryway was as large as the one in Hastings's dining hall, big enough to light up a room and a half.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and entered the kitchen, heading immediately for the refrigerator. Orange juice, smoked salmon, a wheat bagel. Some granola. These were things that would never be present in his house and he always felt slightly guilty eating them at Iker’s or at Sergio’s. He remembered the first time he went over to Sergio’s when they had a three day weekend, and he hesitated before eating, worried that he was taking too much or too little, worried that his accent was obvious and his hands were still dirty. It was such a silly thing to worry about, but he’d kept wiping them on his pants until Sergio shot him a worried expression and dumped another helping on his plate.

There was a cough behind him, and he closed the pantry with a startled "what the f--".

Leo was bleary-eyed in flannel pants and a grey t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve where his thumb poked out. He was barefoot, unsmiling.

"You're up early," he said curtly.

Cristiano stared. "I-- yeah." He opened his mouth and shut it again. "Orange juice?"

"Sure."

Cristiano poured, and Leo sipped it suspiciously. They watched each other across the counter as if a match were about to begin.

"Are you not having breakfast?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I didn't want to be rude and just start grabbing things from the fridge."

"Someone's testy this morning," Cristiano muttered under his breath, but his heart wasn't in it, and he slid over half a bagel. "I basically live here over short breaks," he explained. "Long weekends. It's too hard and expensive to get home for all those, so. Now I’m comfortable just grabbing things from the fridge.”

Leo looked around. He eyed the painting on the wall. Could be a Picasso. Could be Iker's work from second grade. Either way he liked it. It was like looking at an abyss full of all his nightmares.

Everything in the kitchen was expensive and large. Too expensive and too large. Even the milk in the fridge looked gourmet. The towels were thick, designer, not very good at soaking up messes.

"Doesn't seem like your kind of place," he said finally, even though it should have seemed exactly like his sort of place. On the surface, he was all about pretty and shiny, but then Leo blinked, and the real figure emerged.

"Iker is here," he said into his glass. "That makes it my kind of place."

Leo bit into the bagel a little mournfully, thinking that he had always wanted a friend like that. He wanted to create a place to belong with another person, but there was nothing and no one.

"Does it bother you that I'm here?" He asked after he finished his half of the bagel. He pushed the plate back towards Cristiano, wondering if he should clean it off.

"Does it bother you being here?"

"I asked first."

"What, are we in second grade?"

"Does it or does it not?"

"Does what?"

"Does it bother you." Leo was gritting his teeth.

"Does what bother me?"

"Me being here. Does it bother you." Leo's hands curled into little loose fists.

For a moment, there was a light dancing in Cristiano's eyes, and Leo thought he was going to make a joke or ask another stupid question to avoid answering, but then he set his empty glass down and nodded.

"Yes. Of course it does."

He ducked his head, feeling foolish. Of course he was an annoyance; of course he was a burden. "It bothers me too. Being here, I mean. I begged my parents to let me stay home, but--"

"Families are supposed to stay together over thanksgiving?" Cristiano guessed knowingly.

"Yeah." He raised his eyebrows. "There's a story behind that."

Cristiano shrugged, marveling at how easily they could slip back into being friends. "I told my family about the invitation, but turns out Iker's parents don't want them here. Just me because I have... potential. And my family is already ruined. Already trash. But not me. I'm full of-- potential."

He said potential with the amount of disgust he normally reserved for their conversations about FC Barcelona. Leo watched him sadly, hyper aware that the sadness he felt on Cristiano's behalf was nearly as intense as the sadness he felt for himself.

"I told my mom and my brother that families should stick together around the holidays. I know it's a fucked up holiday, but I don't get to see my mom very often, and this was an excuse. I'll see her even less after I move. Possibly never."

He stumbled over "never" like the fear was half-formed and looming like a disgraced beast.

"So why are you here instead of there?"

"My mom told me to go. She said it would be better for my career." Career was a dirty, shameful word in his mouth. "Iker's dad used to coach Real Madrid, so."

"So that's more important than seeing your mom," he said. "Naturally."

"Shut up." He looked wounded. "I asked to stay home. I care." He said it again with feeling. "My family is something I care about."

"I know," Leo answered, feeling sorry and hating himself. He lashed out much too easily. He wouldn't be very good at having friends even if he had the opportunity. "It just seems like there are two versions of you. The one you show to people like Iker and his family and the one that...the one that I see."

He frowned. "Well, that's true,” he said, finding it easy and natural to admit Leo made him different, “But I don't pretend in front of Iker. He's the only person that knows absolutely everything. Where I'm from. Who I love. The things I care about. What makes me nervous. He's my best friend. It's just his family that's fucked up. You can't lump him in with his family."

He looked at the family portrait on the wall. Unai and Iker. Iker and Unai. He blinked, thinking, This family's got a lot of secrets.

Leo didn't speak for awhile, and he followed Cristiano's line of vision. "This family's creepy," he said at last, finishing his orange juice. "I mean, my parents are weird too, but this place. This house is like a tomb." He shrugged. "Although maybe it's just because I'm here."

Cristiano shut his eyes for a second. "Please don't think that because of me. You are not the problem here. The problem is this family has some HBO type of drama they will probably never get around to resolving. It's not you."

"Alright maybe they're fucked up because of family shit, but it's not their family drama that's fucking with your head."

"No," Cristiano said clearly as footsteps sounded on the stairs. "You're fucking with my head."

He opened his mouth to say more, but just then, Sergio rounded the corner, shirtless and perfect. Leo felt like punching himself. His Sevilla flannels hung low on his hips. There was a tattoo disappearing into his pants that was so hot Leo felt like punching himself harder. Sergio was just painful, and there was no competing with that kind of pain.

"Hey," he said casually. He looked back and forth between Cristiano and Leo for a good ten seconds before biting his lip and moving towards the refrigerator. He pulled out the orange juice and a tub of yogurt.

He turned around smoothly, set his breakfast on the table. Without looking, he brushed his hand against Cristiano's. It was a subtle way of staking his claim, not in front of Leo-- not even for Leo-- but just for himself after speaking to Fernando and for Cristiano who was no doubt having a difficult time looking at the other boy and not knowing how to react. It was a reassurance and a promise.

Then his fingers were gone and he scooped yogurt into a bowl, poured juice into a glass. Put it all back into the fridge with a surprising amount of care.

"Sergio," Iker's mom said as she appeared, fully dressed in a power suit and black heels. They hadn’t even heard her coming. She possessed the unique gift of walking nearly silently, even in heels. This was perhaps why Unai got in trouble so often; she was just so good at sneaking up on him. "Where is your shirt, young man?" Before he could answer, she pursed her lips: "I swear. 18 years and I've seen you shirtless more than I've seen you clothed."

"Careful, Mrs. Casillas," he replied cheerfully, "People are going to think you're flirting with me. And it's 17 years, unless you somehow saw me shirtless in the womb. Birthday’s in March.”

"The womb," she repeated with a huff. "Really, Sergio, must you speak this way? I know your mother didn't raise you to be vulgar."

"How is talking about the womb being vulgar?" He scooped yogurt into his mouth, and she shook her head and slid the napkin holder over.

"Wipe your mouth. And get some manners before the dinner party, hm?" She unplugged her cellphone and started down the hallway, ignoring Sergio's eye roll. "I'm off to work, boys. Tell Iker to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners and to--" She paused and turned around. "Tell him to try and do something about his brother. Lord knows that boy will insist on retaining his personality, even with all our friends coming over. It's like he doesn't try."

"I'm sure he's trying, ma'am," Sergio said calmly, but Cristiano saw him clenching his hands.

She was beautiful, framed by light. Dark hair and clear features, bright eyes and a slender frame. The daughter of a prominent politician, she was every bit the poster child she'd been bred to be.

"We'll have coffee later, Sergio. You'll update me on my boys?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel, leaving only the scent of her perfume-- a hint of mint, something floral, something darker.

Leo was lost. As soon as he heard the door close, he lifted his head. "Wait. What's wrong with Unai?"

"She doesn't like him," Sergio said curtly. "None of them do."

"So Unai is alone?"

"Yes," Cristiano cut in, eyes on the portrait. "I think that's why Iker loves him so much."

Leo raised his eyebrows.

And Sergio, uncharacteristically cynical, lowered his voice and said, "He likes his toys broken."

**  
  
**

+

Half awake and lying in bed, Iker was again plagued by his fantasies. Cesc on his bed, hands tied with black rope he could probably have undone if he really tried. His eyes big and wanting, and Iker above him like a wolf. Kissing his secrets into pale skin, mouthing over the marks his fingers left when they consumed. He was a greedy monster, and Cesc was making this sound at the back of his throat like it was difficult to breathe.

Then all at once he was hurtling back towards the bed, and he left his half-dreaming state with a feeling of deep unease. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, ignored the painful, guilty smoldering in his stomach.

Unai was in the doorway knocking quietly. "Mom's going to work. She's telling Sergio that you need to do something about me."

"Oh," Iker said gently. "Then it's business as usual."

Unai half-smiled, but there was something in his eyes. Ashamed, he looked away. "Why is it always your responsibility to deal with me?"

"Because you're my little brother, and I would do anything for you."

"Anything," Unai repeated, and there was too much behind his eyes. There was always something there that Iker didn't know what to do with.

He changed the subject. "Did you get any sleep? You look tired.”

He shrugged and kicked his foot into the carpet. “I’m fine,” he said. “Look, I just want to…” He looked away and breathed like it was a struggle. “I just want to make sure everything is okay? I mean, I haven’t talked to Cesc or anything. I’m trying to avoid him because I was-- horrible. I was just horrible.”

He was remarkably genuine, as genuine as he was those nights after the fights with their parents, when he came into Iker’s room looking for comfort. Looking for someone to not completely hate him. It just about broke his heart that his little brother only had one ally in the entire world, and Iker would give up any kind of love to keep it that way.

Iker sat up straighter and pulled the covers up over his chest. “I don’t want you to lose a friend over this. Don’t be an idiot. Cesc and I are broken up.” He swallowed. “We’re friends now.”

“Yeah, but I know you, Iker.” There was that thing behind his eyes again. “And I know that you’re miserable being his friend.”

He pulled the covers off and tried a smile. It was easier than he thought. “I’m not miserable. I’m not.” He pulled on a shirt and his slippers, and patted Unai on the shoulder affectionately. “Come on, let’s go get breakfast and find something to do today.”

“Mom said you had a suit to pick up.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, as they descended the stairs. “Do you have any idea how bad I look in the suit she picked out for me. It’s all.. itchy.” He shuddered at the thought of that man-eating article of clothing.

“Okay, at least you look human. I look like a politician’s son.”

Iker snorted, and he started saying something to Unai about how he really did look like some sort of contrived Ken doll, but then they rounded the corner, and their father was there glaring down at Unai with a fire in his eyes even Iker couldn’t quiet.

“You’re up late,” he said curtly. “Your friends are already in the kitchen having breakfast, and the smudgy looking boy looks uncomfortable. It’s your responsibility, Iker, to make sure he’s comfortable here. He’s the son of my very important business partner. How many times do I have to tell you that this world is all about appearances and connections?"

“One more time, Dad,” Iker said plainly. “I’m sure I didn’t get it the first thousand times.”

Instead of glaring furiously at Iker, their father rounded on Unai who immediately backed into the nearest wall, heart beating like a drum. “This is your doing,” he said. He had this way of saying things that wasn’t yelling, and his voice wasn’t even much harsher than normal; it was just sharp like a blade that would forever be wedged somewhere between his sons’ ribs.

“I didn’t do anything,” Unai snapped, voice braver than he felt.

His father said something after that about courage, something about their friends being in the house, and how that wasn’t going to stop him. Nothing was going to stop him. If he wanted something done, he would force it, and he struck quickly and quietly, not even very hard, but Unai’s head slammed into the wall behind him with enough force to make his eyes sting.

Then he was gone, and Iker was frozen and horrified, some poison growing in his heart. Every time it happened, he wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt someone in a way he had never wanted to hurt someone before, and the desire grew with every drop of blood, every bruise and scream that his brother suffered.

The quiet conversation in the kitchen had evaporated. They’d heard the bang. Leo must have been curious. Iker could picture Cristiano wincing and Sergio with that sad look in his eyes like there was nothing and no one that could put an end to this.

Unai was stunned against the wall, and Iker was frozen to the spot until he heard his father’s car start and back out of the driveway. Only then did he rush forward and put his arms around Unai in a way that, under normal circumstances, would have embarrassed him. He put his lips in his hair, and he was saying things fiercely that he didn’t even know he had the strength to say.

“It’s okay,” he said finally, after he was finished speaking senselessly. “Everything is okay.”

There was blood on his fingers, and he felt like doing something terrible like breaking a hole in the wall or falling to the ground and making himself disappear. It was his fault, he knew that. He knew that if he hadn’t been so goddamn perfect for them, Unai would never have been held to those same standards. But then again, Unai was just not the kind of kid that his father liked. He liked polite and obedient. He liked someone that could float around the room and charm the pants off everyone there. Unai was funny. Unai was controversial. Sometimes he was disrespectful and sometimes he was polite. He wasn’t anything like the boy he was bred to be.

Unai was still stunned and quiet. He wouldn’t look anywhere but at the ground, and Iker knew he was telling himself that he deserved it, and it made him want to ruin something again.

“Come on,” he said shakily, “Let’s get your head cleaned up. If you need stitches, we’ve got time for the hospital.”

“The first fun activity we have planned today?” Unai returned, and his voice was shaking even worse than Iker’s.

His head was spinning on the way upstairs, but Iker held him up the whole time, blinking back something in his eyes. He flicked on the bathroom light, closed the toilet lid, and sat Unai down. He parted the hair and touched the wound, feeling nauseous.

“God,” he said, and then Unai started crying very quietly into his hands, saying that he was sorry over and over again until Iker was sliding down the wall and sitting on the ground. They were ruined. Something inside of them was ruined.

He stood up. It was his responsibility. “Please,” he said gently, and Unai was saying the same word back at him, asking if they could fall back into old patterns. Iker would take care of him like he always had in the past. Guilt and shame in his bones, he shook his head, pressing his fingers into the back of his brother’s neck, telling him not to worry. Telling him, you don’t need that anymore. You’re going to be okay just like this. The blood will only last a little while.

“I promise we can do anything you want today,” he said, trying to calm himself down.

Unai’s eyes were glazed over, and very casually as if he were asking about the weather, he said, “I want to die today.”

“That’s not part of the plan,” Iker told him, mind going blank. “That’s never part of the plan. You’re going to be 107 and driving my wheelchair to Real Madrid games.”

“Not if he kills me first.” Unai laughed. “God. I’m so happy I go to a boarding school. Aren’t I just lucky.”

Iker kneeled on the carpet. He held Unai’s hands in his. “Hey,” he said, trying to get the other boy to look at him. “Hey,” he said again, and Unai finally did, eyes filling with tears. “Are you afraid that he is going to--” He broke off. “Are you afraid,” he repeated, but it was hardly a question.

Unai didn’t answer. He just looked away, and said, ‘“I hate coming home.”

+

It was later that day, and Unai was squeezed in the backseat between Sergio and Leo. Cristiano was in the passenger seat beside Iker, watching him carefully but trying to appear as though he wasn’t looking. He was not very good at being casual when it came to Iker. He worried too much, but he knew Iker was too proud to ever want to have a conversation about it unless there was some purpose behind it. Unless it was something like, “I’m worried about Unai” or “There’s no way I can bring Cesc to meet my parents.” Then he brought it up, but never if it was just because he was sad.

Unai was quiet with a bit of gauze taped messily to the top of his head. Leo (surprisingly) and Sergio (predictably) were trying to cheer him up with their football banter. He smiled from time to time, but hardly made his normal effort to join in. He fiddled with Sergio’s earphones.

Their first stop was the bakery, and they were picking up the gourmet cupcakes. Sergio offered to go in and, following his lead, Leo somewhat cheerfully persuaded Unai to come with them. Sergio gave Cristiano a look over his shoulder as they walked in which meant, Take care of Iker. Their agreement was to protect him at all costs. They were militant when it came to him.

Then the car was quiet, and Iker was messing with the volume switch, even though the radio wasn’t even on. His fingers were still unsteady, and he was thinking about the bandage. He should have made it thicker. Should have taped it on better. Was the blood seeping through? He should have washed his hair first. Now his hair would be all sticky with it.

“Stop looking at me,” he said finally.

“I’m not looking at you. You know, you really are quite vain. I was staring at the oak behind you, just absolutely marveling at what large trees you have in this neighborhood. It’s unbelievable.”

“Our trees?”

“Yes, your trees. Have you seen them?”

Iker didn’t say anything for awhile. He was still seeing that in slow motion, a head banging against a wall, and he was picturing the moment of impact and the first bit of blood. “He wants to die,” he said without emotion.

Cristiano’s face went blank. “Your father?”

“No,” Iker snapped. “If he wanted to die, I would--” He broke off. “Unai,” he said at last. “Unai does. He told me he wanted to--” He stopped again and put his head down on the wheel.

“He won’t,” Cristiano said. “He’s not going to do anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, there’s no way of knowing that, but I know that he would do anything to be close to you, and that means staying in this world.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Iker said. He lifted his head. “Because he knows I’d follow him into the next one.”

Cristiano felt like being sick all over the dashboard. “Don’t talk like that.” His head was spinning. “Don’t fucking talk like that. No one is leaving.”

“No,” he agreed as the trio emerged from the bakery with baby blue boxes. “No one is leaving.”

Later they were speeding back towards the house  trying to make it back in time to get dressed for the dinner party, and Iker’s mother was racing around the house trying to get everything in order, yelling at the maids and the caterers, trying to remain polite to Leo’s parents as they rushed around trying to help. Iker’s father stood in the middle of the room and watched everything grow around him.

“Take that ridiculous thing off your head,” he snapped as Unai walked by, and he ripped the bandage off so hard and so fast that Unai’s eyes filled with tears again, but he clenched his jaw and made them less apparent.

“Yes,” he said dully. “Sorry.”

Iker pulled on his arm, trying to tug him upstairs before any more damage could be done. “Come on, let’s go get dressed. Dad, we’ve got to get dressed before the party.”

“Fine,” he said.

Walking up the stairs, everyone was quiet. Leo was confused, looking at Unai like he’d never seen him before. Cristiano’s hand rested against Iker’s shoulder the entire time, and Sergio let his hand brush against Unai’s before they reached Iker’s room and shut the door.

Iker dressed silently. He went over to Leo’s room and picked out his suit and brought it over so they could all dress together. He didn’t care if it felt like the night of Prom or some stupid dance. He felt like he had to keep his eyes on everyone, and he’d never felt so down in all his life. Unai had been hit plenty of times before. Unai had been screamed at plenty of times before. This was business as usual, but something about the defeated look in his brother’s eyes just made him want to take all those bad feelings away. He’d take them all if it meant his brother going free.

Once they were all dressed, they lined up in front of the mirror like something out of a catalogue, and Iker surveyed their faces carefully. Unai was like a ghost, Cristiano was strong and silent and he could switch on that smile in an instant; Sergio looked like he always did, camera ready. Leo was a little messy looking as usual, but it was charming and quiet. Iker didn’t look very long at himself.

The party was mostly a blur. Cristiano was being congratulated and asked questions, and everyone just loved him now that he was more than a heap of potential. Sergio floated around the room easily. He was charming and beautiful. Iker, for once, was dull and unpleasant. He clung to Sergio because his laughter was infectious and distracting, and too many people were with Cristiano at any given moment. Leo and Unai mostly stayed near the food, and they finally started playing a game where they counted the number of tea sandwiches the man in a hideous red suit took.

It was exhausting, trying to be happy for that long. When it was finally over, Iker breathed a sigh of relief. His father was taking their private jet to London with his wife and Leo’s parents. Some new talent he wanted them all to see. It was to show off, but for once, Iker was grateful. He didn’t care that his family was obnoxious and filthy rich; he just wanted them gone.

The house was empty as usual, and Iker stole the booze from the kitchen. Their maid always turned a blind eye, even if it meant her occasionally being questioned. She normally just politely suggested that Iker’s parents had drunk more than they thought. It wasn’t like they poured the drinks themselves, so it was an easy lie, and Iker didn’t feel guilty.

He dragged everyone up to his room the minute the jet left and told Sergio to pass out the bottles. He paused when he got to Cristiano. “You don’t normally--”

“A sip tonight,” he said. “I’m not a drinker.” Almost defensively now as if he had to justify occasionally having a sip of alcohol. “I just don’t want to be the only sober one if we all start making out.”

It was meant to be a joke and Sergio at least cracked a smile, but Unai looked relieved, Iker looked serious, and Leo swallowed like something was stuck in his throat.

“We haven’t played truth or dare in awhile.” And because Iker was the one suggesting it, they all got serious and drank sloppily from their bottles in a way that meant they wanted blurry vision and something so dirty they couldn’t think about it in the morning.

“Yeah, but we can’t just play truth or dare with us,” Sergio whined. “I mean, then I have to kiss Cris, which I’ve already done; Iker, who admittedly, I’ve wanted to in the past-- don’t judge me; Leo, who I’m pretty sure still doesn’t like me; or Unai who-- wait. I’ve done that too.”

Iker sat up, eyes flashing. “Excuse me, you’ve what. What the fuck, Sergio. My little brother?”

Unai snorted, lighting up for the first time all day. “It was literally once.”

“Twice.”

“Twice.” Unai shrugged. “Anyway, he’s right. I’ve got limited options here. Llorente lives in the neighborhood. He’s always out walking his dogs and some asshole is always following him with a camera or asking for an autograph. Poor guy can’t even walking his fucking dog in peace.”

“Fine,” Iker said. “Who has his number?”

Cristiano sent a text in seconds. “Yeah, he’ll walk over.” He smiled. “You know, I’ve always thought he was sort of handsome. Plus that Muniain kid is cute in a lizard kind of way.”

“A lizard kind of way,” Leo repeated critically while Sergio made the same kind of face next to him. “You can’t just go around fucking amphibians.”

“Who cares about fucking amphibians,” Iker groaned. “I’m still picturing Sergio and my brother, and it makes me want to throw up. The night hasn’t even started, and I already want to throw up.”

That started an argument, and it ended with Cristiano and Iker pinning Sergio down and whacking him with a pillow until he was pink in the face from laughing. Unai was sitting back on his heels and cackling, and Leo was smiling so hard he forgot to feel alone. There was a flurry of activity, and finally he and Unai were grabbing pillows too, and somehow Leo and Cristiano got locked in an intense pillow fight and, competitive as they were, didn’t even hear Iker going downstairs to let Llorente and Muniain up. Javi trailed behind them with a polite kid named James none of them had ever met before. Apparently he was a transfer from Colombia and starting at Hastings next semester. Naturally, Llorente was the one helping him settle in.

Drinks were dispersed, and the rules of the game were announced. Javi asked a few questions, but he was less stupid when he had a drink or two in him. Leo was thinking about the first time he’d played truth or dare, with David and Ricky and all of them, and it felt like a lifetime ago.

Iker was sitting with his back against his bed. “So,” he said, “Who wants to start?” And they all looked around at each other expectantly. James looked lost. His English was perfect, but he didn’t know the gossip or the people, and he was having trouble telling Iker and Unai apart.

“I’ll go,” Javi said finally, throwing his hand up in the air and sloshing his drink all over his crotch. “Oops,” he said with a high-pitched giggle. “Well, we all knew that was going to happen. Sergio, truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“How many people in this room have you made out with?” He held up his hand. “Wait, kissed. I know you’re going to try and get out of that somehow.”

“Four,” he said without hesitating.

Iker almost choked. “Fuck you. You don’t tell me anything. I knew about Cris, but now my brother? And… and? Who else?”

“Javi and Llorente,” Sergio said, winking at them both. “Javi tastes likes lollipops and Llorente tastes like money.”

Javi looked offended, and Llorente was pleased, but he was trying not to appear pleased, so he just ended up looking like he tasted something sour.

“Leo,” Sergio said, and Leo bit the inside of his cheek nervously. “Truth or dare.”

Out of habit, he looked to Cristiano. He was about to pick truth, but he knew Sergio had seen his moment of weakness and, very very afraid of the truth when it came to Cristiano, he cleared his throat and said, “Alright, fine, dare.”

“Lovely,” Sergio said, sounding like it wasn’t lovely at all. Whatever good feeling had existed between them before that moment was gone now. He was one-half-of-the-power-couple Sergio now. “I dare you to make out with the person you find most attractive.”

“What,” Leo shot back, “Like in the world?”

“In the room,” Sergio said sweetly.

“You’re only hurting yourself,” Leo told him, a little viciously, and he stood up to move near Cristiano, plopping himself down and raising his eyebrows. “Alright, you wanna go?”

“Are you a tongue kind of guy?” Cristiano asked pleasantly, and Iker snorted into his palm.

Leo couldn’t think straight. All he could feel was the numbness in his fingers and Sergio’s heavy gaze on his back, and the sweat on his palms and the way his lips were painfully chapped, and then he was wondering if Cristiano would be okay with his chapped lips? Sergio’s lips weren’t chapped. Sergio’s lips were all perfect and moisturized. Halfway through his mini panic session, Cristiano cleared his throat and said something like, “Well are you going to kiss me or not.”

And that was when Leo moved forward, and their lips connected, and it was like something flipped him upside down. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and he wanted to be flipped upside down for the rest of of his life if it felt like Cristiano’s lips and his fingers pressing gently into the back of his neck. He couldn’t think except in feeling.

Then his hand shifted or slipped, and the kiss was deeper, and Cristiano’s palm was cupping the back of his head, and he wanted moremoremore, and it wasn’t until the kiss had ended that he remembered he didn’t really want their first kiss to be part of some game.

They looked at each other, and Leo’s felt his cheeks heat up. Cristiano looked like he was seeing something for the first time, and Leo felt Sergio’s gaze heavier than ever as he scooted across the floor to his previous position.

“Alright,” he said. “My turn, I guess.” He was painfully aware of his lips, of the color in his cheeks, of the way Iker was coughing in an attempt to disguise his laughter. “Iker, truth or dare.”

He sat up a little straighter. “Truth.”

Leo hesitated and then, thinking about his conversation with Cristiano that morning, said, “Who is your best friend here?” He knew it would probably hurt Sergio, and he felt like shit for being that petty, but that kiss hadn’t sapped him of his poison.

Iker looked from Sergio to Cristiano, and Javi laughed under his breath like this was bound to be exciting. Iker bit his nail. “Never mind, dare. I’ll make out with someone. I’ll fuck someone. Don’t care. Just--”

“Rule number three,” Sergio cut in, jaw tight. “Can’t go back on your choice.”

“Fuck the rules?” Iker suggested desperately. Everyone waited patiently, and finally he sighed, put his head in his hands. “Cristiano. I’ve known Sergio for longer, and you’re like a brother to me. But there are certain things that I can talk about with Cristiano that I can’t talk about with anyone else.”

Cristiano expected this answer, and he kept his head down, knowing Sergio was hurt beyond measure. There was a surprising amount of bitterness in his eyes, and he bit down on his lip hard. “It’s fine,” Sergio said. He nearly opened his mouth to say something horrible, but he caught Iker’s eye and faltered.

“Alright, Iker,” Iker said, smiling gently at the younger boy. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

“Make it dirty,” Llorente said fondly, letting his hand rest on Muniain’s knee.

Iker shrugged. He looked to Sergio, partly for a suggestion and partly to win him back, and the other boy made a gesture with his hands. Iker shrugged again. “Give Llorente a blowjob.”

"I'm getting some water," Leo said abruptly, knocking his knee against Sergio's by accident, earning himself a glare.

"Same," said Cristiano. "Iker, want some? Anyone?"

No one paid him any attention because Muniain was moving forward, hands braced on Llorente's hips. Lips wet, tongue ready.

Cristiano and Leo started down the stairs in silence. They waited, waited, waited until they were all the way down the stairs and in the kitchen with the hallway door closed before they dared to speak.

"I don't think Sergio likes me anymore."

Cristiano filled two glasses and slid one to the other boy. "I don't think he ever really liked you, to be fair. Sergio doesn't like to share."

Leo was wide-eyed with the first few buttons undone, hair rumpled and a confused lack of clarity. "But Sergio never had to share."

"He's never had to share in his life until now."

Leo didn't make a sound. He just kept sipping his water and thinking he would never forget this trip, this night, this feeling like someone had chosen him out of everyone. He was thinking about what he'd been reading the night before and "You thought if you handed over your body he'd do something interesting." The minute he read that, his fantasies were so intense they felt like a passion-driven plague.

“You’re lucky,” he told Cristiano after awhile. “You get to walk around with the knowledge that somebody loves you.”

“I never walk around with the knowledge that somebody loves me,” he replied, looking away and smiling faintly. “You get too secure. You’ll feel foolish in the end. At some point they’re going to turn around and tell you that you’re too fucked up.”

“But Sergio is fucked up too,” Leo pointed out with the faint suspicion that they all were.

Cristiano put his hands around the glass. “Can we just stay down here for a little while?”

+

Fernando was eating dinner with his family, and he felt like he hardly knew them. He hadn’t seen them in months, and they didn’t know a thing about what he’d been through. He felt silly, being all torn up and confused over a boy, but he thought maybe it was an alright thing to feel when it came to Sergio.

Slowly but surely he was surveying his wounds, trying to patch them up, trying to move on. Because that is what people do after someone leaves them. They take a look at the damage, they tell themselves that they will never be able to recover-- you’ll probably die from these; he’s something fatal-- and then they recover.

There’s always going to be that little grace period right before the Moving On, the little two week or two month or two year window of time in which it is okay to grieve. He went through his sparse profiles on social media first. He’d been busy with school and his new friends and the avoiding of his Leo shaped guilt, and so his Sergio grieving had been burning a hole in his head and his heart, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to it. He was waiting. If he truly mourned the loss, it would really be a loss. Validated, it would live and be real. He didn’t want to give life to such a terrible thing; he didn’t want to allow this ending to exist.

Fernando rarely used social media on his own, but Sergio was obsessed, and so he rubbed off on the other boy. Fernando’s instagram was comprised of photos he had taken while with Sergio and the rest of them-- their adventures and their disasters. There was a photo of Fernando, Cris, and Sergio with a few dozen comments about how gorgeous they all looked together. He felt like deleting it, but he didn’t.

Another with Cesc and Iker peering over his shoulder, and Sergio’s stupid comment about something they had done earlier that day. There was one of Leo, Cris, Fernando, and Iker after the friendly the year before. They were mud-splattered. Cristiano looked victorious, and he managed to wear the mud like yet another medal. Leo looked small and tired, like something emerging from a swamp merely because it was curious and not because it wanted to kill you. Iker looked important.

He switched over to Sergio’s profile. Still active. There was something from the neon party from before Thanksgiving and about eighty comments referencing poison ivy. Sergio looked good. He looked happy. He looked strong. His arm was around Iker, and Iker was leaning in to kiss his cheek. Then, before that, him and Cristiano at the movies together with Marcelo and his girlfriend. It was cute, and they were smiling, and Fernando felt sick because it could have been him, and he wanted it to be him, but he was relieved too that it wasn’t.

He wondered if it was possible to love someone and to not love someone at the same time. He wondered if it was okay to love someone only when he liked them, and if that meant he didn’t love Sergio at all. Some part of him felt that endings were better than beginnings. In the beginning everything was happy and full of hope and promise and that giddy feeling in his stomach like literally anything in the world was possible. If the moon started flashing orange and green and spitting molten iron down on earth, he wouldn’t have been surprised. But endings are much more predictable. Endings feel like home.

There’s the initial feeling of toppling over, like going over the edge on a rollercoaster ride. Out of control sensation, and then you feel the tracks beneath your stomach, teeth clattering together, hammering in your head. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over. This is easy to accept. Much easier to accept than love. Much easier to believe this time around.

He felt like an idiot for calling. There was only one person he should have been calling, and it wasn’t Sergio. Sergio had moved on. He had Cristiano now. What Fernando could do, Cristiano could do better. He could kiss better, he could fuck better, he could do his grades better and with less effort, he could play football better, he could look better. He could probably love better too, if he ever really tried. It was sickening, but it was a fact. It was time to move on and happen upon other people’s heartaches.

messiah has logged on 3:17 am

nandotorres: I know I’ve really fucked up in the past, but I was thinking maybe we should talk.

messiah: Yes, you have. And I guess that’s a good idea.

nandotorres: We don’t have to be friends or anything because we’ve moved in separate directions, but I wanted to see if maybe

nandotorres: well I don’t really know, but I just felt like I should say something

nandotorres: We were goood friends and then nothing

messiah: well hey if you want to point any fingers for that, I’ve got a few suggestions

nandotorres: I know. Me and you

messiah: Nope. just you. Enjoy your new friends. I honestly don’t feel like talking anymore.

+

Cesc was in the back of the car. They were recreating his scene with Iker only it was harder and faster and rougher than he could imagine, and half of him felt like crying out but the other half was willing his weakness to take the punishment he deserved. Because that was it-- there it was; He’d found his answer. Sex wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about happiness. It wasn’t even about pleasure.

Mindless. It’s not supposed to mean something. And it’s always supposed to hurt.

His eyes were either wild or lifeless. When given time to himself, he only operated on either one of those levels. Around Gerard or his sister, he had to act normal, and so for a little while, he felt normal. His newfound friendship with Gerard changed things, added excitement, something close to happiness. It was easier to pretend with someone he was re-learning. But when he sat alone with his thoughts, every demon returned, and he kept seeing their faces. He kept seeing Iker’s face. But no one could kill these demons for him; it was a solitary battle.

This boy had dark eyes. He wasn’t even that handsome. He just looked like he could bulldoze through people without knowing or caring. He was the sort of boy nothing mattered to, and Cesc longed to be him. If he couldn’t be him right away, he could press their bodies close together until something clicked into place. That lack of feeling. It would arrive soon.

And very soon it did. It was filthy. It didn’t even feel like skin against skin. It was silk against sandstone, and afterward he was frayed.

Diego was smoking, propped up against the car door when Cesc woke up. "Do you always pass out after you cum?" He asked insufferably. "A little bit hot, a little bit scary. Thought maybe I killed you."

"If you thought you killed me," Cesc returned evenly, "Shouldn't you have tried to wake me up?"

"What good would that have done if you were dead?" He was unconcerned, blowing smoke in Cesc's face. He grinned. "So you're one of those rich boys?"

Cesc rolled his eyes and bent to search for his shirt. He pulled it over his head. "So you're one of those criminals."

"I've been to juvie once. That hardly counts." He wrinkled his nose. "And it was for getting caught with drugs. Soft crime. Tell anyone that and I'll kill you."

Cesc rolled his eyes again. "Right. You're a hardened criminal who wipes entire villages out for fun. Got it."

He gestured with his hand-on-fire. "But you go to that fancy school, hm?"

"I guess. It's not as fancy as you think."

"You got nice uniforms. You got those government sons."

He tugged the cigarette out of Diego's hand. "The fuck's a government son?"

"That Oscar kid. Washington likes his daddy."

"I don't think Washington likes anyone. His dad's a senator." He coughed a little and passed the cigarette back to Diego. His head was spinning. "And he's actually sort of nice," he added thoughtfully.

"What, did you spend some time on his yacht? Did you two go ice skating together in Switzerland?"

Cesc huffed. Didn't say anything. It had been France not Switzerland. And it was skiing not ice skating. And they hadn't stayed on a yacht; it was a five star hotel.

"You know," he began again, still resting against the door, "in all the years that I've known you, you've always been a world away. Me on one side of the tracks, you on the other. You never looked our way because you're one of them rich boys. But we serve you at the diner and we wash your cars and we work as your pool boys, if we're lucky."

"Is that why you fuck me the way that you do?" He wondered aloud. "Because I have everything."

"No," he replied, putting out his cigarette on a CD case. "I fuck you hard because you're a sex toy, and you scream like one."

He smirked, opened the door, drove with Cesc still jostling around in the back, struggling to find his clothes and pull himself together before they pulled up in front of Cesc's house. He was just buttoning his shirt when his mother appeared on the porch.

"Tomorrow then," Diego said through the window, as Cesc shut the door. "Maybe."

Cesc didn't say a word, and he stumbled towards the porch where his mother was standing with her arms crossed. "Cesc Fabregas," she said.

"Mother," he replied tersely.

"What on earth were you doing getting out of that vehicular death trap?"

"Obviously seeking my _vehicular_ end."

"Cesc, that isn't funny." Her arms remained crossed. He knew he wasn't getting past her, so he didn't try. "Tell me who that boy was and why his car looked like something from the dump."

"That," he said, "was Diego Costa. And he lives on the other side of town."

That was enough explanation in and of itself. Cesc's half of town was wealthy and beautiful, and everything was picturesque. Diego's side of town was filthy and dangerous. People didn't just have things over there-- they fought for things.

"And what are you doing with someone from the other side of town?"

Cesc smiled with teeth and everything. "Reacting," he said. And then , very quietly in case Carlota was listening: "I found the papers."

And then it was very easy to move past her.

+

After everything that happened in the kitchen-- their hiding out and their conversation, the feeling and the glances-- nothing had changed. Not really, anyway. Cristiano still didn't belong to anyone though both boys felt as though they belonged to him.

When Cristiano finally heard someone slowly coming downstairs, politely making enough noise so as to not surprise the two boys, he turned to Leo and said, "Can we go back to being friends?"

If it were not for the implication that they had been friends once before, Leo would have taken Iker's advice and ignored the outstretched hand, but instead he swallowed his emotion and his pride and nodded, took the hand in front of him.

"Of course," he said. Then again, "Of course" as if everything in the world was blurry except the answer to that question.

They dropped their hands hurriedly, embarrassed and smiling, and then Sergio shuffled into view, not nearly as drunk as he probably should have been. He'd been too concerned with his treatment of Leo-- guilt ate him up-- and his conversation with Fernando and, above all, his relationship with Cristiano. At some point, definition needed to appear.

"Hey," Leo said, inclining his head. He knew he was defeated, but that was how things worked in reality. The loser didn't get the boy. He was always going to be the friend. He was always just going to be a temptation. Not the answer, not the solution, not even a prayer. Temptation.

"Hey," Sergio returned, and it sounded like an apology in and of itself, but he was not finished yet. "Are you going back upstairs?"

Leo nodded. "Yeah, I guess I should probably get back up there. I already missed a blowjob, so I can't imagine what kind of shenanigans you boys are getting into now."

Sergio shrugged modestly. "I'll fill you in on the way up?" It was clear that he wanted to talk to Leo alone, so Cristiano rested against the counter as they disappeared around the corner.

Sergio didn't fill him in, and it was obvious that he wasn't used to apologizing first, but he did his best. First he said, "I'm sorry" haltingly and then, with growing confidence, "I was a dick to you. I've been trying not to be such a dick lately."

They paused in front of Iker's door. There was laughter, shouting, the clinking of bottles. Leo nodded.

"No, really." Sergio put a hand on his arm earnestly. "I don't mean to be the way that I am. And I'm trying to be better, not so jealous. Not so fidgety. I want to deserve the things that I have." He lowered his voice; everything about him was softer now. "I want to deserve the people I belong to."

Leo nodded again. That he could understand. "We're going to be friends," he said. "Maybe not you and me, but me and Cris. And you're going to be okay with that."

And surprisingly, Sergio didn't protest but rather smiled. "I wouldn't dream of complaining."

Leo turned to enter, but Sergio called him back. "Hey, Chess Boy."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not even in the fucking chess club."

Cue the reappearance of Sergio's trademark smirk. "Iker and Unai made out a few minutes ago, so if you get an incest vibe, just shrug it off."

"Are you fucking with me?"

But Sergio was taking the stairs two at a time, laughing silently to himself the whole way until he gracefully landed at the foot of the stairs. The smile melted, and he made his way to the kitchen, thinking that Cristiano was always the final problem. He could tackle everything he wanted to fix about himself, but there would always be Cristiano after that. Because there were the things that Sergio felt and believed and loved, and then there was Cristiano in an entire world of his own. Whatever concept was even more fucked up than love, that was this feeling.

He knocked on the doorframe, and Cristiano turned around, something burning in his eyes.

"Hey," he said. "So tonight is eventful."

Cristiano shrugged. "Me and Leo are going to be friends again."

"So I've heard." He took a few steps forward but remained on the other side of the counter. An insurance policy. Or self-preservation. "Look, I just need to say a few things."

There was a flicker of worry then, "Okay."

"Fernando called and we talked, and I know you don't want to hear that I love you, so I won't say that, but I will tell you what I told him: you're the reason I don't love him. You might be able to balance your emotions, but I cannot. When I belong to someone, I belong to them completely and nothing else in the world matters. That's why I'm so fucking stupid when it comes to this mess."

Cristiano didn't speak, and Sergio didn't want him to. It was nice to say everything and not hear something back about how he was saying too much because there wasn't a lot of time left, and what did it matter anyway if he made a fool out of himself?

He continued, "I know that we have a lot of things to work on because, above everything, we are friends, and that complicates things. I know. But I also know how I feel about you and how, whether you want to admit it or not... How you feel about me. You're more transparent than you think."

"I know," he replied, wide-eyed. A confession.

"It just hurt after Ricardo," Sergio said, exposing a wound he had covered up for so long that even he barely knew of its existence. "When I was with Fernando, it felt okay because I always wanted you more than you wanted me. But then you and Ricardo were so happy, and me and Fernando were so happy, and it was just fucked up because it was always supposed to be you and me that were so happy together. Not apart. I was always supposed to want you more, but you were still meant to want me a little in return."

He was a little breathless but his eyes narrowed like he was confused or angry or both. His hands were loose at his sides, his eyes open and hungry and wanting.

"Be something to me," he said finally, and Sergio's eyes shone a little brighter at the promise of something. "You know it's just going to be another break-up, but it seems worth it to try."

"Do you mean that?"

"I mean that--" He cut off, eyes narrowing again. He was very determined to get this out. "I mean that I didn't want to make a choice, and you should know that I remain where I have stood for awhile now-- midway between the two of you and wanting. But I feel as though, after so long, I owe it to myself to try this before I leave for good."

"So we're--"

"A thing." He wrinkled his nose. "I personally still find relationships and relationship words as distasteful as I've always found them, but we make sacrifices for the people that we--" A small pause. "We make sacrifices, don't we?"

Sergio thought of messy Leo making his fierce little eyes at Cristiano like he was the only thing in the world to make fierce little eyes at. "Yes," he said. "We make sacrifices."

They walked upstairs, and Sergio nudged his hip. "So now I can start throwing around the word boyfriend, hm? And watch you turn all red?"

"Shut up," he said, mortified. "I'm already regretting this. You're the worst. You're just the worst."

His hand was on the door, and Sergio pulled him back, grinning. They looked at each other for a moment. And then entered.

**  
  
  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. sorry this is long. I had to shove a lot into a chapter. As usual, ask questions and submit your interpretations. I'm always interested in your feedback even if I don't answer the comments right away. As I've probably complained about plenty in the past, my computer is having a few issues, so I'm trying to use it sparingly and most of the writing is being done on my phone. 
> 
> 2\. Sorry again for the lack of Xabi. I was pressed for time, and I wanted to get this up close to Christmas as a Christmas/late Christmas gift for all of you. I'm planning on writing a one-shot soon, and I have one in progress that I quite like at the moment although I'm sure that will change. To make up for the lack of Xabi in this, there is the possibility that I'm writing a small VERY SMALL spin-off to this that will go into Fabio's story a little bit more, and I might use that SMALL VERY SMALL spin-off (like at most three chapters maybe just one) to clear up Xabi/Steven and Iniesta/Xavi storylines. Let me know if you're interested. 
> 
> 3\. Reminder that I read every single comment and take it into account although I obviously can't please everyone. I really appreciate everything you write, and again, please don't think that I don't read them even if I don't reply right away. You're all wonderful, and I appreciate everything.


	14. Where They Came From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cesc-centric for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't read this over because i have a calc test hanging over my head. comment with opinions, interpretations, mistakes, inconsistencies. as always, i appreciate your input <3

There is the calm before the storm, the storm itself, and the aftermath. The destruction creates a peace that is hard to come by. What was once living is no longer whirring. Like a machine with missing parts, it has simply come to a standstill.

 

How to behave in this new world is the difficult part. The storm was easy for all of them because it was all about reactions. Painful, horrible realizations and, at times, melodrama-- but, still, it was natural. Everything to come was about carefully placed comments and a constant stream of olive branches. Peace. Please.  

 

Breakfast was the first opportunity to fall into place. First Cristiano sat down with Fabio, and they talked over coffee (Cristiano) and a tea-orange juice combination (Fabio) until 7:00. Both of them were light sleepers and rose early, especially on the first day back. Being roommates, it was easy for them to coordinate their morning schedules in order to see each other -- and Juan just remained in bed until half an hour before classes, complaining in his sleep about the noise. After showers at 5:30, they regrouped in the hallway, wet and shivering, white button down shirts sticking to their skin. And that was when they walked through the quiet hallways all the way down to the near-silent dining hall.

 

It was nice in the morning. They could just sit  at their normal table, speaking quietly about their time apart while they cafeteria workers cleaned and set breakfast out for the students. It was like time standing still. Little movement, some rain outside, the beating of it on the roof above their heads. Nothing else but their conversation and a little bit of light.

 

Then there was the noise of the school waking up around them, and the anxiety set in. Marcelo joined them at the table first, and he plowed through two plates of scrambled eggs silently while Fabio finished his story about their new house -- “...mandolin-shaped wedding cake. All white and fancy, and the swimming pool is so wrong. It smells like mob money.”

 

“Well,” Marcelo started, but Cristiano shook his head. They didn’t bring up Fabio’s family’s undesirable connections.

 

Fabio shrugged and continued. “Anyway, I don’t love it, but my room’s got a fridge and two TVs." He chewed his french toast thoughtfully. "So, I mean, how can a person be unhappy with that?"

 

Cristiano smiled gently, looking down at his plate because if it had been anyone else, he would have had that hateful, hateful feeling in his stomach. They didn't even have one TV at home let alone two in one room.

 

But Fabio understood this, and he patted Cristiano's hand thoughtfully. "So what's this last few weeks going to be like?"

 

Leo was walking toward them with his Calc notebook and textbook in his arms. He hesitated a few feet away from the table, and Cristiano beckoned him over.

 

"Hopefully peaceful," he murmured to Fabio as Leo took his place.

 

Across the dining hall, Cesc's eyes were bloodshot and wounded. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a little blood at the corner of his mouth from his lip splitting. He was still thinking about Diego and that car, and how he could still feel it-- like two planets moving.

 

Gerard approached him warily with Marc who, oblivious to Cesc's dark mood, waved cheerfully and chattered on about how good the potatoes were in a very serious but passionate way for a full two minutes before Gerard gave him a meaningful look. He shut up.

 

"You okay?"

 

Cesc scratched his chin. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm doing real good right now."

 

His reading wasn't finished for English, and he hadn't watched the video for Philosophy. He was woefully underprepared, and he knew he could have just asked Gerard to recap things, and they could have figured it out together, but he just didn't give a shit. His boyfriend had abandoned him, his parents were abandoning him, and his sister was a liar and a traitor. She had known and said nothing. He was lost and alone.

 

"I heard," Gerard said hesitatingly. "From your sister. She called me last night."

 

"To keep an eye on me?" He was too fucked up from the night before to muster any real venom. Bottle after bottle after bottle. Shots until his ears were ringing. He'd gotten on the latest possible flight to avoid giving his parents any early peace. He knew it was cruel, but. Again with the whole not giving a shit thing.

 

Gerard looked at him. "A bit, yeah. And I can't say I blame her."

 

"Okay," he said in the same tone people normally use to tell someone to fuck off.

 

Gerard looked to Marc again, and the younger boy understood this as permission to speak. "So how was your break?"

 

Wrong question, but necessary. Cesc shut his eyes and rested his face in the palm of his hand. He felt like he was back in his room with the world slipping out from beneath his feet. He was a suicidal mass of blankets waiting for his sister to stop banging on his door. Are you alright? Cesc, are you alright? But she had known, and he had refused to answer.

 

He only left his room to fuck a boy from the wrong side of town. He hardly ate, slept little. He smoked and smoked until he felt all messy and charred on the inside. Diego smiled as he ruined himself; that boy was like hard candy-- tastes sweet enough, but be careful. He'll rot your insides.

 

"Good," Cesc said. "It was so, so good."

 

+

MONDAY THOUGHTS:

By Karim Benzema

 

\- is it okay to wear crocs in the shower because pretty sure Javi urinates in the shower, and im not going to get a fungus.

\- power couple seen sitting together at breakfast. Score: 8/10 (no PDA yet. No PDA, no 10. We want a smooch.)

\- spotted: Junior midfielder Cesc Fabregas with a hickey. New boyfriend?

*note: not confirmed that you can actually get fungus from urine, but it's worth checking out

+

 

Fernando had a dream, and it wasn't a typical dream or a wet dream or even a nasty dream of any kind-- which is to say, a normal dream. It was a dream concerning Sergio in all his golden, sunburned, wealthy glory.

 

They were lounging together on the yacht, and everything was unsteady as if a drunkard were holding the lens through which Fernando watched. Fernando was sitting there alone on his chair, and then Sergio was sitting with him. Not on the chair next to him like before, but with him, near to him. Close by, as if they knew each other again.

 

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

 

Sergio bent in for a kiss, just a peck on the cheek, and Fernando's stomach made an awful sound like a building being overturned, and they both laughed, comfortable with each other in a way they never had been in reality.

 

"Because you're beautiful-- even when you're starving and your stomach is making sounds."

 

Sergio was on an entirely different plane. These things he said were meant to be delivered to normal people. To people who heard the word starving and thought about how they hadn't eaten since breakfast, not for people who had trouble convincing themselves to eat at all. God. He was perfect. He was beautiful. They didn't fit.

 

Then, "Especially then." Dream Fernando liked pain.

 

"No." The dream was fading, the morning beginning to set in. "No, not like that. Not like-- Fernando, wake up."

 

His roommate was kicking his bed. A shirt landed on his head. Morning. Time to move around like a machine. Smile. Breathe. Walk. Rinse, repeat.

 

He accidentally bumped into the subject of his dream while they were standing in line for fruit bowls. Sergio's plate was full with bacon, eggs, cheese, tomatoes, some oatmeal on the side. He looked cheerful, and he slapped Fernando on the back like they were friends again. His hand felt like fire.

 

"How was Thanksgiving?"

 

Fernando hesitated. "Not bad, I suppose."

 

"Listen." He looked more at home than he had in a long time, no more dark holes that led to nowhere in his eyes. No more teenage angst that resembled an abyss. "I had a good time talking to you on the phone the other night."

 

"Yeah." He looked back at the table Sergio was obviously sitting at. The typical crew was there and, oddly enough, Leo. Cristiano was laughing at something he was saying, leaning into Fabio's side and laugh-talking back.

 

He looked up, just as Fernando meant to look away, and his smile began to fade. There was nothing predatory or jealous or accusing about his gaze, just pure neutrality as he stared back. It was funny, when Fernando really thought about it, how so many people were terrified of remaining entirely neutral. They always had to smile or glare-- it had to be one side or the other. They rarely just looked back with a blank expression of watchfulness. It didn't say "be afraid of me" or even "I'll be watching you" but rather "I am present, and perhaps you are too." But there remained a coldness to Cristiano's gaze that made Fernando doubt his own presence in the world. He wanted to touch his forehead and whisper to himself about particles and dust.

 

Sergio was loading his plate up with more fruit. Everything was mixing together, and it looked rather unappetizing. "...only a few more weeks until break, and then we're free for Christmas, and I was thinking about maybe spending Christmas in Connecticut with Iker and his family, but then I was thinking like, why are we going to Connecticut? Who fucking likes that place, you know? Anyway, now I'm thinking about going to California because my mom is shooting a film there--"

 

"Yeah, what kind of film, Ramos? A porno?" Wayne slapped Sergio on the shoulder as he walked by.

 

"I hope you fucking break a vital tooth on your cornflakes, bitch," Sergio returned swiftly.

 

Fernando smiled. "So California?"

 

Sergio shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe Cris will come."

 

"But you guys--"

 

Sergio caught his meaning before the question ever lived. "What I said on the phone," he said quickly, almost breathlessly, "Ignore it. I was wrong. I was wrong about everything."

 

"Everything?" He was feeling defeated and confused.

 

"About Cris and I. We're, you know, together." His face was pink, but he was smiling. "I was wrong when I said it could never be."

 

Fernando chewed on a strawberry and headed in the direction of Llorente, still chewing. Sergio was walking beside him, leaning in slightly to catch his response. As if he cared. He waited a beat, then two. Sergio should have turned to join his table two steps ago. He remained.

 

"People in relationships are so exhausting," he said finally.

 

He set his tray down beside Muniain who was sticking his finger in Llorente's yogurt-- Fernando winced at the opportunity for euphemisms.

 

Apparently he'd said the right thing because Sergio was backing away with a little grin. "I know," he said. "My cheeks hurt. I don't understand how people are happy for so long. I have smile muscles."

 

And then he was gone and Fernando was left feeling like something giant was sitting on his chest and waiting for him to suffocate. Everyone else was so normal. They could all read their books and look at their notes and have their relationships without that awful feeling like there was something wrong, like maybe they weren't human at all. He felt like some vital organ was missing, like perhaps when they were putting him together, they had forgotten to teach him how to feel properly. Whenever he felt, it was all wrong. A broken doll in a toy factory. Everyone else gets chosen, but who wants the damaged one?

 

Llorente and Muniain were engrossed in their awful kissing, and Fernando looked away, shame boiling in his stomach as his eyes landed first on Cesc, who looked pissed off and volatile-- although this was growing more and more normal these days-- and then on Leo, pleasantly chatting with Fabio.

 

They had always been the outcasts with him. First Leo because he was always a second choice, and then Cesc drifted into outcast territory after he and Iker were finished, after he lost his group and, now, his way. Leo was slowly growing into something else, just one head of the Cristiano-operated Hydra; Cesc was moving in the opposite direction-- even though he and Gerard had reconnected, seemingly without warning, he was more alone than ever. It was obvious just looking at him. He was tired and angry; there was some sickness in his eyes.

 

Cesc caught him staring, and the animosity left his eyes at once. Maybe he was remembering when they were friends. Nothing close, nothing special, but sometimes they hung out with the rest of the group, and it was cool to be associated with each other. Now things were fragmented, or at least Fernando was. And it seemed like Cesc was too.

 

As if to affirm Fernando's guess, Cesc raised a hand in greeting.

 

+

 

They were hiding out in one of the janitor's closets during lunch. They could have just snuck up to their rooms but somehow this just felt hotter.

 

"You're an angel," Sergio mumbled through kisses.

 

"You know." Cristiano leaned back thoughtfully. He was never as invested in kisses. "Angels were actually supposed to be abominations."

 

Sergio rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go back to covering your lips and not complimenting you."

 

"Six wings, I think. Awful faces." He dodged Sergio's lips. "Only thing that separates them from demons is, apparently, that they didn't follow Lucifer down his pretty little sin road."

 

"You are a sin road," Sergio muttered bitterly. They returned to kissing in the dark, Cristiano mildly amused with himself and Sergio feeling like swatting him with something substantial.

 

There was a shuffling outside the door. Someone's class was just getting out, and there was the quiet pressure of conversation filtering under the doorway-- someone was upset about a grade, and his friend was terrible at giving comfort; someone's shoes were squeaking against the floor, and he was the last to walk by, slow and deliberate steps as if dreading where each movement was taking him.

 

Cristiano was listening to the sounds outside the door, loving the color of activity; for him, kissing was better like this with some kind of distraction. It couldn't all be hands in hair, lips soft and wanting, an expulsion of air, of desperation. Sergio heard nothing of the outside world; he was wrapped up in the kiss, analyzing the subtle movements, feeling how Cristiano was distracted.

 

"What would you do," he said dispassionately-- this was not a smart thing to do, he knew-- "if he were here instead of me?"

 

Cristiano looked at him a moment. Something registered in his eyes. "Who? What? Sergio, what are you talking about?"

 

"Leo," he said generously, trying not to sound like he meant it. "What would you do if he were here instead." Pay attention, he thought bitterly, you would pay attention.

 

Cristiano looked very serious. "Probably remove the broom. I wouldn't want to overwhelm him. You know how short people get when confronted by large objects." He thought for a second. "I mean, then I would also have to remove the complete lower half of my body because of my unfortunate penis situation--"

 

"Cris," he said, and this time he didn't have to pretend he didn't mean it. He was half-smiling; the feeling had lost its edge.

 

"What would I be doing with him in a closet anyway?"

 

+

 

They were sitting in American Lit, and Isco turned around. "Did you do the reading?"

 

He, of course, had done the reading. He always did. Very on top of things, very talented. Handsome. Everyone adored him and, even if they had never spoken to him before, would never speak a word against him. He had an easy smile, a shy way of looking down when he was complimented. Cesc hated him instantly, though he'd never cared enough to feel anything in particular towards him before.

 

"No," he said curtly.

 

"Oh."' Isco's smile lost a bit of its energy. "Busy break?"

 

"No," he said again, not dropping or softening his gaze. His eyes were drills. "I can't focus on Sundays."

 

"Same," he said agreeably. "I spent the week with my parents and got back here Friday night, so I spent the weekend in the dorms. You wouldn't believe how quiet they were with hardly anyone here. Anyway, that's why I started the reading on Monday. I knew I wouldn't be able to focus over the weekend. So, you ready for the quiz?"

 

"If I didn't read," he said, struggling not to grit his teeth, "How could I be ready for the quiz?"

 

Isco shrugged. "Want me to give you a recap?"

 

Cesc kept carving a hole in his desk with a black ballpoint pen. He was exhausted and sore all over, bruised in places he didn't want to think about. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that car-- an abandoned parking lot, down a dark alley, right in front of his house. He remember his hand slipping down the glass of the window, slowly as if it had the strength to remain or at least wanted to.

 

"Why are you being nice to me?" His eyes were narrowed, shoulders hunched over the desk to guard himself against the cold-- Beckham had forgotten to turn on the heat as usual.

 

Isco blinked. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean, why the fuck are you turned around and speaking to me right now and offering to help me with my fucking whatever-- reading, quiz, whatever."

 

His expression softened instantly and he turned fully in his seat. "Sergio's my roommate. Sergio likes you." He set his book on Cesc's desk and flattened it to make his notes more visible. "I like Sergio. So, by default, even if I don't know you very well, you're someone I wouldn't mind sharing some notes with."

 

Cesc scowled at the page. There was no budging his foul expression, but his eyes were flicking intelligently around the page, even as he maintained the unpleasantness.

 

"You okay, man?"

 

"Fine. I'm fine."

 

"Hey, we've only got a couple more weeks until the semester is over. Just remember that." He smiled pleasantly. "Besides, if you really need a break from all the shit here, you can always go home. Don't you live just like two hours away?"

 

"Unfortunately."

 

"So you can always head home for the weekend."

 

"I somehow don't think that's going to help things."

 

+

 

16 years of Walking Disaster was leaving campus by the South Gate when he saw a familiar face. He was in his beat up car, leaning out the window and staring up at the school.

 

“Damn,” he said, a little admiringly, not looking up-- but Cesc knew he saw everything. “What’s this, some kind of mansion?”

 

“School,” he said briefly, stopping in front of the passenger side. “The main building used to be an old Hollywood star’s mansion, and then they built the rest of the school from there after she died.”

 

“Creepy. How’d she die?”

 

“Incinerated.”

 

Diego’s eyes narrowed and he finally tore his eyes away from the school. He took Cesc in calculatingly. “Liar.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“She was not incinerated.”

 

“Oh, really?” He shifted his bookbag and tried to look superior. “Then I suppose you know how she died? And you just asked me because you wanted to be a smartass?”

 

“Fuck off,” Diego grumbled, looking back at the steering wheel. He picked at a loose string on his shirt. “So, listen, where you headed right now?”

 

“Bookstore a few blocks away.”

 

“Huh.” He made that sound under his breath like he was thinking, pausing, wondering. He was interesting in his own destructive way. If Iker walked, strong and silent, then Diego ran like he was on fire. Iker was all sharp edges that could be made gentle with a few words; Diego was so sharp all over that he could only ever be a blade. “You read?”

 

“I mean, I can.”

 

Diego swallowed a smile. “Alright, shit. You’re in a mood today.” He leaned over and popped the passenger door open. “You want a ride there?”

 

Cesc kicked the door shut abruptly. “Maybe.” He shifted from one foot to the other and watched as Sergio, Marcelo, Isco, and Nacho gathered at one of the other exits. He longed for that kind of togetherness, to be able to bump shoulders with someone and smile at them. To be able to tease, to touch, to love casually; instead, he had to drown.

 

“What, they don’t let you leave or something? What kind of prison is this?”

 

He gritted his teeth. “They let me leave, alright? Curfew is at ten on weekdays, eleven-thirty on weekends. After that, the gates are closed.”

 

He shrugged. “So get in, we’ll drive around for awhile. I’ll take you to your bookstore. I can take you back past curfew and then I can watch as you struggle to climb over the gate.”

 

“Yeah, right. As if we would have the kids of movie stars, senators, singers--”

 

“I get it. You’re rich.”

 

“--prominent lawyers, former presidents, scientists--”

 

“Wow. It’s almost like I understand that you’re rich.”

 

He took a breath. “--and not have surveillance cameras? Really?”

 

Diego was staring at the road. “What a good boy. Smile pretty for the cameras then and go back inside.”

 

Cesc scowled. He wanted so badly to feel, and here it was. This was what he had been searching for. If he couldn’t feel anything good anymore, then the only way to escape the numbness was to feel this anger. He couldn’t let this non-feeling destroy him; he had to destroy himself before it got the chance. He was going to be ruined on his own terms; those ruins, at least, would still belong to him.

 

Diego could see that he was immovable and indecisive, so he shut his eyes for a moment and willed his features to soften. He forced himself to remember the days when their mothers had gone to the same church, back when Cesc was too young to understand the looks he was getting for waving to Diego as they walked by each other.

 

“Look,” he said, “My house isn’t too far from here, and I was in the area anyway because I needed some parts for a friend’s car, so if you don’t want to come with me, that’s fine. It won’t be an inconvenience or a tragedy. But if you did decide to come with me--”

 

Cesc closed his eyes very briefly, an angel unaware.

 

He hesitated. “It’s only 4:30. We’ve got plenty of time to make it back here before they shut the gates on your pretty little prison. That gives us six hours to get to the bookstore, or whatever. Think we can make it?”

 

It wasn’t the time that made him hesitate. There was a sort of desperation beneath his fingernails, begging him to claw at his own loose skin. Spending time in that car, spending time with that boy, spending time in the middle of the city with the lights and the traffic and the sickening noise-- it was going to drive him to do something he would regret. It wasn’t a matter of risking the curfew. It was a matter of risking something more important; something he liked to throw around lately.

 

“I promise I’ll take you back here whenever you want. You say the word and--”

 

He yanked the door open and slid inside. “Five and a half hours.” He slammed the door shut again.

 

“What?”

 

“Drive,” he said calmly. Cesc was not calm. Calm Cesc was quickly dropping bits of his sanity on the road behind him. “Five and a half hours. You said we had six. It’s five and a half.”

 

“Alright,” Diego muttered under his breath. “Guess you decided to join Mathletes.” He took a hard left when Cesc pointed.

 

“And she wasn’t incinerated.”

 

“No shit.”

 

They did end up going to the bookstore, and Diego patiently followed Cesc around, looking confused every time Cesc handed him a book. He passed them over wordlessly until Diego’s arms were full, and his mouth was doing a little twitching thing that made Cesc smile. Not because it was cute-- because he was enjoying the other boy’s suffering. He had bruises; Diego could carry a goddamn pile of books.

 

“Why so much Poe? Who the hell is he?”

 

“Because it’s dark,” Cesc said self-importantly. “And he’s the guy who’s going to come and murder you in your sleep for asking that.”

 

Diego leaned against one of the shelves as Cesc continued to scan the section. “Why are you making me hold all of these? And who needs this many books?”

 

“Because I need my hands free to look.” He gestured to the row in front of him as if this was a task that could take a very long time. He crouched down. “And, I don’t know, I used to hate reading. I thought it was the most boring, useless thing you could do with your time. I mean, why not watch TV? Why not go out and actually do something?”

 

“Oh, good.” He straightened up. “You’re coming to your senses. Can I drop these now?”

 

Cesc ignored him. It was getting easier and easier to do that. Soon they would reach an advanced level of their relationship and be able to conduct entire conversations without hearing anything the other person said. “And then things changed. I realized that feelings are fleeting, you know? I didn’t understand why I was spending so much time in the real world when I didn’t understand a thing about it or myself.”

 

“You question things too much.” When Cesc looked up, Diego wasn’t joking around anymore. His gaze was hard and steady with the full weight of his world behind it. “Things are this way just because. Period. You are this way because this is who you turned out to be. You don’t need a damn book to tell you that.”

 

He straightened up and looked at the pile wordlessly. Then, “But I do. I want to feel things.”

 

“Then feel them.”

 

“You can’t force feeling. There’s such a fine line between feeling everything and feeling nothing.”

 

“Then cross the goddamn line.”

 

Cesc didn’t feel invincible anymore; he just felt sad. He took his books back. “I am.”

 

+

 

Sergio decided they were going out. It had been ages since they spent time in the city-- what with the drama already going on at school-- and they needed time away from that place. School always felt like such a prison after a few days away; something rots at the core, and students just have to sit there and sit there and sit there for hours while they’re poisoned by the stench of their own failure hanging over their heads.

 

He proposed the idea to Cristiano with Marcelo, Isco, and Nacho hanging behind him like a bunch of excited little goblins: “A night in the city. We hit a few bars. We try and get into a club.” He waved his hands dramatically, setting the scene. “Isco’s friend’s brother DJs for the one on Sansom, so that’s pretty much a guarantee.”

 

“Don’t jinx it,” Isco warned.

 

“Don’t say the word jinx,” Nacho protested, whacking his side. “You know that word jinxes things more than anything.”

 

“You just fucking said it.”

 

“Well I only said it because you made me say it.”

 

Sergio silenced them with a look. “Cris, I promise it will be fun, and we really want you to come with us. Please?”

 

Cristiano had been caught unaware in one of the common rooms making popcorn. It was only 5 pm, and he felt a little pathetic, but it was good popcorn, and he had a whole night planned with a hidden agenda and everything. He and Leo were doing some matchmaking. Cristiano was confident it would strengthen their friendship if they meddled in other people’s lives together.

 

“Sese,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I already have something planned for tonight.”

 

Sergio looked down at the popcorn and back up at Cristiano. “A movie night? A movie night is what you have planned? Cris, a club with a VIP section. VIP. Do you know who we could stumble across there?”

 

“Probably no one you haven’t already met, Sergio.” He closed the microwave and turned his back on it. “I already promised I’d hang out with Fabio, James, and--” He hesitated. “Leo.”

 

“Oh.” Isco and Nacho watched eagerly; Marcelo, at least, had the decency to look away. “Well, what do you guys have planned?”

 

“Nothing better than a VIP lounge.” He smiled supportively, trying to tell him that his plans were awesome, that they were still together, that spending nights apart didn’t mean anything, that they were still the inseparable duo they had always been. Leo hadn’t changed anything.

 

Sergio still looked a little curious and a little apprehensive, so Cristiano drew him aside and motioned for Marcelo and the others to step out of earshot. “Look, Fabio has a crush on James, but he doesn’t want him to know it yet because-- well, you know how Fabio gets. Nervous and emotional and shit when he gets a crush. Anyway, Leo and I had this movie night planned for tonight-- which, yes you were invited to by default, so don’t give me that look-- and Fabio begged me to set something up with James, so now we’re all hanging out, and Leo and I are trying to gauge how James feels about Fabio.”

 

The tension left Sergio’s eyes, but he still folded his arms over his chest. “I’m offended that you didn’t include me in your matchmaking plans. You know that’s our thing.”

 

“I know scheming is our thing, but to be honest, I don’t think we should start that matchmaking business we always talked about because even Iker never liked our choices for him.”

 

“That’s because we thought Iker was straight,” Sergio reminded him.

 

“Right. Anyway, I don’t think we’ve made that mistake with Fabio.”

 

Sergio smiled. He knew he was a horribly jealous person, and whether it was as best friend or boyfriend, he wanted to be perfect in Cristiano’s eyes. He was jealous of everyone, even Iker, but never Fabio. Fabio was untouchable. It wasn’t just that Fabio wasn’t a “threat” in the traditional sense; it was that what Fabio and Cristiano had was an understanding that extended beyond anything. No matter how much time they spent apart or how long they went without talking-- which normally wasn’t very long-- they could still just pick up where they left off when they were reunited. With Fabio, it wasn’t about competition. It was just about company.

 

“No,’ he said. “We didn’t make that mistake with him.” He reached for Cristiano’s hand, and they touched fingers gently, aware of Marcelo, Nacho, and Isco still watching. Sergio bent in for a quick kiss, and then he was walking out the door, thinking about how drunk he was going to get and how the pathetic urges would set in.

 

“Marcelo,” he said as they walked toward the door. “Promise me something?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Don’t let me call him later tonight?”

 

+

 

It was close to 6:30 by the time they finally left the bookstore. Diego carried the bags and Cesc wandered around looking pretty and lost until the owner came over. Apparently they knew each other because they talked for a good 15, 20 minutes before Cesc turned to Diego with an insufferable grin and said, “Want to put those on the counter?”

 

And Diego had lugged them over to the counter without complaint because, God, that kid was a menace. They were the same age, and Diego couldn’t stop looking at him like there was something innocent about him. There was nothing innocent there-- he remembered precisely what it was like to hear filthy words in his ear about more this, more that, hurt me. He remembered biting feeling into skin and hearing the animalistic little groan that set everything on fire. This had nothing to do with love. But some part of Diego was charmed by Cesc’s dual nature. What a temptation, what an angel. What a thing to destroy, what a thing to protect.

 

Cesc pulled his credit card out and handed it over the counter as if it was nothing. No. That was a thing. That card was a thing that represented many things with much value. But that boy was not a thing. He was an animal growing out of the ground, dealing with the burden of his sins and his scars, play-acting human. Diego got the impression that he was once something more.

 

The card was returned to its owner, and Cesc slipped it back inside his wallet, tucked that into his bookbag, and handed the bag of newly purchased pleasant afternoons to Diego. “Carry that to the car, would you?”

 

He accepted the bag, and they walked to the car. It was freezing, and Cesc almost slipped on the icy ground, but he made it to the car, safe albeit embarrassed.

 

“Alright, so we hit the bookstore, and now it’s time for dinner. Have anyplace in mind?”

 

“Italian.” He kissed his fingers. “My…” He faltered. “My friend took me to this Italian place one time. It was on Spruce or something, like not too far from the theater. I’ve been dreaming about it for weeks.”

 

Diego slammed on the brakes. “You’ve been dreaming about something for weeks,” he muttered. He honked obnoxiously at the cab in front of him. “No use having a goddamn car in this shithole if people DON’T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE.” He stuck his head out the window. “Hey, shitrod--”

 

Cesc pulled him back and hurriedly rolled up the windows. “Someone is going to come over and murder you for that one of these days.”

 

“At least I won’t have to put up with the fucking traffic.”

 

“Your fault for driving in the city.”

 

“I came to pick you up, so technically it’s your fault that I’m here in the first place” he returned, glaring at the pile of books, and then turning to glare at Cesc, and then turning back to glare at the shitrod who couldn’t drive.

 

“I thought you came to get a part for your friend’s car.”

 

Cesc reached for one of the books. There was no feeling in his chest. Absolutely nothing but a dull, bitter amusement. His family was gone, departed, dead. His sister didn’t trust him, and he didn’t trust her. HIs best friend was concerned and boring and worried, like an old shivering spineless rat in a cage. He never did anything, did he? Gerard was so, so normal. He fit in with everyone. He didn’t ever have to try very hard at anything. People liked him, and he liked other people, and he never had to worry too much about darkness.

 

Diego missed his turn. “I did,” he snapped, after swearing for two blocks. “It was just an added bonus that you happen to go to school in this area.”

 

“I’m an added bonus?” He flipped through a book on Ovid. “Not even the whole package?”

 

“No one is the whole package.”

 

“What, no one is good enough for you?”

 

“No, no one is enough for me to completely fuck myself up over.”

 

Cesc shrugged, thinking that maybe that was true. No one wanted to believe it. Everyone wanted to just sit there with the pretty little thought that life was good and love was good, and those two things could be brought together in some kind of perfect union. But maybe there was a darker truth lurking beneath the surface; maybe people were bad, and the world was a bad place with flashes of brilliance; maybe no one was worth getting hurt over, and maybe that wasn’t cynical at all. Perhaps there was a certain kind of strength that came with understanding.

 

“Where are we going?” he asked after awhile. “I didn’t give you directions.”

 

“Yeah, well, I can’t afford your Italian place. Anything in that area is worth more than my car.”

 

“I don’t want to be rude, but it wouldn’t take much.”

 

Diego took another hard left. “Ever been to a food truck?”

 

“Sure, plenty of times,” he lied. He’d been, maybe, once or twice when he and Gerard had been enjoying their newfound freedom as freshmen. But that was a lifetime ago, and he hadn’t eaten at one since, and he didn’t want to seem like a snob, so he relaxed more in his seat and tried not to hate himself for wearing his uniform.

 

It was darker and colder, and Cesc was beginning to wish he’d brought a jacket. He wanted to roll up the window because people were walking on the sidewalk outside, and it was what his mother would describe as “urban” with a curl of her lip and a sniff of disdain. Someone was spraying color on a wall as they slid past. It was beautiful, a woman with blue-green hair and eyes like little suns.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“Lived in this city all your life and never been to these parts?”

 

Cesc scowled at him. “There are certain places you don’t go, if you’re me.”

 

Diego smirked. “Right. Because you’re so obvious about it.”

 

“What, obvious about being rich?”

 

“No, obvious about being gay.”

 

“I am not obvious about being gay, and that is not why I refuse to come to these areas. I refuse to come to the shitty areas of the city because I’d get pummeled for having buttons on my clothes.”

 

“It’s not about buttons, dickshit. It’s because you call it the shitty area of the city like you’re so much better.” He laughed; it was a haunting sound, full of the night. He wasn’t very pretty when he laughed, but it reminded Cesc of the muscles on his back, of the way he gave and gave and gave until even Cesc didn’t want any more pain. “You’re not better,” he said finally, and he turned again down a narrow road with a charred building.

 

“I know.” Beginnings were so much worse than endings. Beginnings were where you were born and where you had to remain for the rest of your life. Born on top? Remain there and suffocate. Born on the bottom? Remain there and die. Don’t even get the chance to suffocate. Just die and die and die because the people that dress nice couldn’t be fucked to take care of you. Endings were so much more peaceful if the beginning wasn’t pleasant.

 

“But you are obvious about being gay.”

 

“Am not. And even if I am obvious about it-- which I’m not-- it wouldn’t mean me getting pummeled.”

 

Diego let out that dark laugh again. There was nothing humorous about it. “Honey, out in the real world, this is what you have to do: you change your voice. You change the way you move your hands. You become hyperaware of the way you walk and talk and breathe. Be careful where your eyes go. Don’t stare too long. Don’t talk for too long. Flirt with people you don’t like. Fuck people you don’t like. Fuck yourself over because the real world isn’t like your sheltered little paradise.”

 

He was trembling all over. People were walking by and staring at the car, and they were still too close to the building all twisted and burnt. He was angry for being born the way that he was to the parents that he had. He knew he was lucky, just another white boy complaining because money didn’t make him happy. But he couldn’t rationalize the edge. It was drawing closer and closer, and he felt things falling apart. Sooner or later all the broken pieces would go tumbling over, and there at the bottom he would remain. People aren’t waves; they break in different ways against the rocks.

 

“You want to go home now?” It wasn’t entirely condescending, but Cesc knew what he was thinking: you’re lucky, you’re lucky, you’re lucky. “Have you had too much for one night? Three years in that sheltered place, and you’ve already forgotten that people hate until they’re consumed? Or no--” He cut off and laughed that harsh beast again. “I forgot. Your entire life has been people accepting you.”

 

“You think my entire life has been people accepting me?” He turned slowly. He just wanted to reach down and fall into one of his books and feel or not feel. There was that fine line again. “You think my parents want to be seen with me? You ever wonder why that school is a safe haven for people like me? Not because we’re some walking Billionaire Boys Club advertisement. Because everyone has kicked us to the curb, so most of us have decided not to do it to each other.”

 

Diego turned again, and they were out on a larger street now, moving closer to the area Cesc knew, all bright lights and big city and only the feeling of danger to outsiders.

 

“So I’m sorry,” Cesc said softly. When had the radio quieted? Since when was he the only song. “I’m sorry if I forgot what it was like to be in the real world. Don’t you understand that I was forcibly removed from it?”

 

Diego was quiet for a long time. It wasn’t feeling bubbling up in his chest, but there was the absence of hatred and perhaps the beginning of understanding. This wasn’t one of those love affairs that turns into something more. They were fucking in the back seat of a car; it doesn’t get less romantic than that. They were clawing at each other, arguing for the sake of the struggle-- and perhaps to say things they were too afraid to tell themselves. They needed each other for progress, not because they needed each other.

 

“Italian?”

 

Cesc bit the inside of his cheek. “My treat.”

 

+

 

It was like watching two puppies go at it. James’s english was wonderful, but every so often, he would point to the screen and ask for a clarification and Fabio would pause the movie, explain something in Spanish-- their language in common besides English, luckily; Fabio was something of a genius when it came to languages-- until he had James nodding and laughing and patting his arm in thanks.

 

Leo and Cristiano were hiding out in the bathtub with a huge bowl of popcorn. They’d left James and Fabio to their own movie once it looked like both of them were comfortable and happy. Both James and Fabio had noticed their long-term absence ages ago, but they didn’t seem to mind, so Cris and Leo had shut the bathroom door and settled for talking, playing on their phones, trying some of the Calc problems for the test on Friday.

 

“So where’s Sergio tonight?” He was deriving some godforsaken function to do.. something with it. Something. He was normally very good at math, but his mind wasn’t clear, especially not with the source of that confusing feeling seated right beside him. He remembered Iker’s warning-- too late now.

 

“He’s out. They’re hitting up some club with a VIP lounge.”

 

Leo snorted. “Hasn’t he already met all the people that have access to VIP lounges?”

 

“That’s what I said.” Cristiano nudged the iPad towards him so he could read the problem. “But.” He half-stood for a moment, reaching over to the cabinet. He took out his reading glasses with a little sigh and pushed them over his nose with his index finger. “You know Sergio.”

 

Leo stared. He rarely wore his glasses. Sometimes in class but not often enough. Defeated, he shut his eyes and cleared his mind. “Yeah.” He blinked a few times. “I know Sergio.”

 

“Incredible, isn’t he.” Cristiano was so focused on the problem that he didn’t have time to guard his emotions. It was raw but not unbalanced. He meant it, but his voice did not waver. So this was what was inside of his mind. All that time, all that space, all that potential-- and still he managed to sound like a normal boy.

 

“What, Sergio?”

 

Then he looked up, aware of the conversation. For a moment, his brow wrinkled and he looked like he wanted to take it all back, but then he looked away and nodded. “Yeah. He is. Sometimes I worry about us. I mean, I worry all the time. That I’m not enough. That he’s not enough. That nothing will ever be enough. That nothing will ever be perfect.”

 

“Nothing ever will be perfect.”

 

Cristiano smiled. He erased the problem and restarted. “So you see my dilemma.”

 

“I do. But not when it comes to Sergio. He is perfect, haven’t you heard?”

 

“I have. I wasn’t sure the news had made it to the chess club yet though.”

 

“Fuck off.” Leo swiped at the iPad and the page reloaded. “But seriously, I don’t see how you could worry when it’s him.” They looked at each other, and Iker’s voice kept echoing in Leo’s ears. Don’t be friends. Don’t be friends. Don’t be stupid enough to fall for this. He’d told himself the same thing a million times, but he couldn’t say no. What was better? To lose a friend? To lose his only friend in the world because his damn heart had to go and betray him? What, in the end, was stronger? Romance or friendship? Friendship at least had solid roots to die on; Romance would die on a bed of roses. Pretty to look at but not worth that much in the end.

 

“Anyway,” Leo said, poking Cristiano’s arm and waking him from his reverie. Whatever he was thinking, he did not voice, and he returned to his problem wordlessly. “You were saying that he’s amazing.”

 

“Was I?”

 

“You were.”

 

Cristiano smiled as he worked. He waited until he solved parts A-D, checked his answers, and boxed every single one of them neatly. And then he set aside his notebook, looked up, and said, “Leo, we might not see eye to eye on a lot of things, but you’re a good friend to me, and I hope I can be one to you.”

 

“You are,” he said, without looking up. He switched to playing a game on his phone, refused to look Cristiano in the eye. “You have been for a long time now.” That hurt to think about; it hurt less to think about Sergio and Cristiano because they were inseparable; they were one word; they were meant to be if anything in the world was. That, at least, made sense.

 

“But about Sergio,” he said, pressing down too hard with his pencil. “Tell me about this VIP club of his.”

 

Cristiano shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. I guess Isco’s friend’s brother works there or something-- maybe owns it? i forget. Anyway, they’re probably going to get in because of that, and then I’m sure they’ll just go hard. Wander back in drunk and fucked up, and I’ll have to tuck them in like I always do.”

 

Leo frowned. “How are they going to get back here if they’re all--”

 

“All taken care of.” Cristiano held up a hand. “Please. You act as though I’m an amateur. I’ve dealt with Sergio before. Sergio is constantly losing his phone, so he’s got the find my phone thing turned on: Easy to locate. Me and Fabio normally send one of them texts -- incomplete lines from one of their favorite TV shows or movies; we can tell how drunk they are based on their responses. For example, I sent Sergio ‘Luke, I am your--’ a few weeks ago, and he replied with ‘goose,’ so I knew it was time to get him home--”

 

“Yes, but how does he--”

 

“Get home? Easy. Nacho is on duty tonight. Seems like he’s dull and stupid, but he’s just a little quiet, shy. Anyway, he’s chaperoning tonight.”

 

“That’s kind of brilliant.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So this is what you do, huh?”

 

“What, hide in my own bathtub so I can do Calc problems while my best friend makes out with an exchange student?”

 

Leo jolted upright, and his pencil slipped through his fingers. “They’re …. what?”

 

“Making out.” He didn’t even look up. “They’ve been at it for at least ten minutes now. What’s wrong with you?”

 

Leo grinned. Some kind of feeling was expanding. “This is what you do,” he said again. “Right? Take care of people?”

 

+

 

They didn’t make it to dinner. Cesc didn’t really know how it happened, but it happened. One second they were driving and everything was peaceful and numb, and then Diego was parking the car, and they were climbing over each other to stretch out in a somewhat comfortable position. It was ten times more desperate than bleeding.

 

It was violent and jarring as usual. A stab, blinding pain, the terrible loss of gravity when he realized the pain was not going to end; it was only going to grow. He could compare it to flowers as much as he wanted; either way it was going to hurt. Bruises would show up as bruises. Damage would still be damage done. But they’re flowers growing? Sure they are. But he was violent and sick and, if he knew what was good for him, he’d be purifying himself instead of romanticizing the color of a wound.

 

Afterwards, Diego lit a cigarette and rolled down one of the windows. Hazy and brilliant, unfeeling. The stars inhaling, exhaling; something spinning. Cesc shut his eyes and opened them again. Diego was still there against the window looking large and capable of giving in to his pleas-- more, more, more, hurt me.

 

“I think I hate you,” he said, and he turned to spit on the ground. It took him a few times to get the taste of blood off his tongue.

 

He went on smoking. “You’d have to feel something to hate me.”

 

It was a bad time to need a phone call, but he was feeling fucked up and unremarkable, and his lip was going to be bruised and swollen for days. Somehow all of this meant calling Iker and explaining that -- you are the first boy who ever loved me, or at least the first boy who ever said he loved me. He wanted to retrace feeling into himself.

 

He lied about wanting to walk himself home, and Diego didn’t care enough, despite the day, to stop him. So the door was opened and Cesc stepped unsteadily out onto the sidewalk. It was nearly deserted, some college kids whooping and breaking a bottle down the street. Cesc waved over his shoulder, remembering to grab his books just in time, and then Diego was gone in a flash of burning rubber. There was a confused glance over his shoulder that Cesc missed.

 

Finally he called. They were friends after all. He didn’t have to feel guilty about being freshly fucked and angry. He didn’t even have to apologize for the way his hands were forming fists and developing their own thoughts on how he ought to hurt himself next. He didn’t even have to feel at all, but that was the thing about his relationship with Iker; he didn’t feel things because he had to, and he didn’t feel things because it was easy to feel them. He was just naturally inclined that way-- something about heaven, something about coincidence.

 

Iker picked up on the third ring. He sounded out of breath, like he’d just launched himself over the bed to get the call in time. “Hey, what’s up? How are things over there? How does it feel to know the semester is almost over? Just one more and then you’re--”

 

He shuffled his feet against the ground. The wind was biting. It was bound to snow soon. Diego’s car was already gone; it was much too late to worry. “My parents are splitting up,” he said finally.

 

“I mean--” Iker stopped when he understood. “Cesc,” he said. He was very good at loving, and if he was not very good at loving, he was very good at playing like he did. Then: “Are you okay?”

 

He took a hasty right. Shortcut. Maybe he wasn’t ready to freeze to death just yet. “I always assumed things would fall apart. With my parents and with everything. I just didn’t expect to be alone when it happened. But everything went to shit and my best friend was busy, my sister just let me remain in the dark, and my ex-boyfriend doesn’t want me around. I just never thought it would be a loneliness like this.”

 

Then there was feeling and too much of it. It was dark outside, and he couldn’t see his breath in front of his face, but he felt that he should have been able to. It would snow soon. Sheets upon sheets like heavy frosting; later, like the rotted stuff. But everything would be there beneath that extra layer. All the shit and all the filth and all the badness. He would still be there bleeding and struggling.

 

“Anyway,” he said to the stunned silence. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

 

“Cesc,” Iker said, and there was a seriousness in his voice that Cesc couldn’t handle.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just tell me how you are?”

 

There was hesitation on the other end, a rustling of sheets and a door closing. Then, “I’m writing this paper, and you wouldn’t believe the amount of research. I mean, I’ve had to completely….”

 

And he went on and on and on like that for ages until Cesc could see the gate of the school, closed. He was too late. Iker’s voice was still soft and persistent in his ear.

 

Sergio, Marcelo, Nacho, and Isco stumbled up to the gate in front of him. Exasperated, Nacho kicked out at it. “I told you we were going to be late.”

 

“Well I forgot it was a school night, alright?”

 

“How do you just forget it’s a school night?”

 

“It’s not like I do any fucking work?”

 

Cesc wandered off alone toward the North Gate. Sometimes the groundskeeper left it open a little late. He said, “What did you have to read?” when he needed a clarification and “Virgil, huh?” He was beginning to realize that his heart was still in conversations with Iker. He wished he could unfeel it.

 

Cesc tried the gate as Iker continued to ramble on about his paper. He jumped from Virgil to Homer to Euripides to “God I wish this class wasn’t just this semester. You have no idea how badly I want to do something I love.”

 

“I thought you said you were happy to be doing this.”

 

“Happy to be studying business? Yeah, sure, I’m happy.”

 

“Why do you always say happy like that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like it’s just an idea.”

 

Iker sighed. “No, I’m happy.” There was a pause and, “What about you? What did you do tonight?”

 

“Just drove around.”

 

“Since when did you get a car?”

 

“Diego’s. It’s-- Diego drove me around.”

 

“Oh.” There was another long pause and it sounded like Iker was trying to swallow all the time they spent together. “Does he make you happy?”

 

“Happy?” He shook the gate again and the lock opened. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that I am still going to be working on all the other things I promised you in the notes of last chapter. I also have a request for a band AU that I'm seriously thinking about turning into my next project after this story. Let me know if you have any other requests, especially for one-shots.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been thinking about this story a lot, and I love the pairings I have, but I'm going to let the boys experiment with other pairings until you're screaming "no no you're destroying everything" and then maybe, just maybe, I will fix it and make you happy again.


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